


Make It Right

by BlackJacketsandPens



Series: DA:I -- Make It Right [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, and needs this man to have a happy ending, basically this is what happens when a sad anders fangirl needs more anders in her da:i, because i couldn't choose and so yeah that's canon, fenhanders ot3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:28:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A near-death experience results in an Anders alone, and in the midst of choosing to stop running, he ends up stumbling into the Inquisition and staying. One renegade mage's quest to fix his mistakes and make it all right again.</p><p>(Part of Make It Right!verse -- PLEASE read this in tandem with Around the Skyhold Fire, as both fics are intertwined and stuff might not make sense otherwise.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Justice Served

**Author's Note:**

> So yes. I was in the middle of DA:I and went 'this needs more Anders', because I'm mage-loving trash. And so this happened. It'll be slow to update mostly because I'm literally writing this as I play DA:I and I'm stuck grinding motherfucking Power before 'What Pride Had Wrought'. I'm doing my best to keep everyone IC (and this involves literally rewriting everything I had so far to make it better), and this is my first time in the DA fandom (as you can probably tell considering I haven't even finished DA:I) so please be nice? 
> 
> In any case, I have a series of character vignettes that'll be in this series too, so...enjoy those when I get them up!
> 
> SO! Prologue: in which Anders is incredibly messed up, and then slightly less messed up.

**PROLOGUE: Justice Served**

 

“There he is! Cut him off at the bridge! He can't run forever!”

The mage -- the abomination -- gasped in a huge gulp of air, twisting around to fire a bolt of electric blue magic at its pursuers. It didn't need to breathe (or did it?), but its host did (did he?),so the act was forced, remembered only when it's body began to flag. It leaped over a fallen log, hearing the shouts of the men behind it, to the left. Templars. The red and silver, the flaming sword and starburst on their armor, they gave them away.

And it fled from them. It had been hiding in a little Ferelden village, healing broken bones and colicky babes, helping a cow give birth and other such tasks. And then they had come, breaking down doors and swinging swords, threatening any who harbored rebel mages. So it had stepped forward, to protect the villagers. And had run.

And now he was trapped. They had beat it to the bridge, cutting the ropes and surrounding it in a half-circle in front of the sheer cliffside behind its back, no way across. It looked from face to face, seeing nothing but vicious contempt and hatred, and lifted its arms again, blue light blazing from skin and eyes and hands.

A beat, a breath, and the Templars raised their blades, the steel pulsing as they reasserted reality, breaking its contact with the Fade and leaving its magic to gutter like a dying candle.

 **_“You will not take me!”_ ** It snarled, voice ringing in the air.

But even as it fought, it was surrounded. It had nowhere to go except through the Templars or down the cliff, and slowly, beat by beat, step by step and with each swing of a sword and cast of a spell, it was pushed back. And back. And then its foot hit air and he hissed and snarled, and it fell. Its body bruised and bones broke, bouncing down the sheer cliff and colliding with branches and jagged rocks, slamming into the rocky riverside below with a sickening sound, rolling limply into the shallow water. And all went black.

It flickered back to consciousness slowly, feeling chains heavy around its wrists and neck. It strained against them, growling, only to scream out in pain when its wounds wailed in protest. It fought to ignore them, pushed down the pain with a glimmer of magic, and snarled at its captors. **_“Release me!”_ ** It roared.

The lead Templar laughed. “No,” he said, crouching to cup its face in a hand. “You’re an abomination, mage and a rare one. Not a demon at all. My master will want to see you.”

It barely heard him -- its body was wracked with a new agony; a song like lyrium, but not beautiful. It was discordant, cacophonous, horrible and distorted. It shrieked through him from where the Templar’s fingers touched, running through its veins and body and dragging vicious claws through its very being.

It whimpered, trying to focus on the source of the terrible noise. And there was red. Red red red, and it howled in realization. He remembered the red, the red song. The terrible corrupted lyrium that had destroyed the brother of the smiling dwarf, had sent Kirkwall into a madness led by a madwoman. And now it was here, shimmering almost smugly around the necks of these Templars.

It howled again, thrashed heedlessly against his bonds and snarled in rage, but for some reason the awful song drained it of its power, and what little it could muster was keeping its host alive. It eventually stopped, slumping and subdued, and the Templars laughed. “There we go, it’s quiet now,” one of them said. “What do we do with it until we can bring it to the Commander?”

The leader shrugged, grinning wickedly. “Whatever we want,” he said. “Remember, boys. This ain’t the Circle anymore. And it’s not like it’s going to fight back with the red lyrium dampening its magic. As long as he’s still in one piece when the commander gets it, we can pretty much go wild.”

There was another laugh, and deep within the abomination, a memory of terror stirred, of a cold wet cell all alone in the dark, of sneers and bruises and hands and pain. It shoved it down with the rest of the pain it was muffling, though; it couldn’t afford fear. It had to stay strong.

But staying strong was so terribly hard when the Templars brought those buried memories -- someone else’s past, someone familiar and so far away -- back screaming. They laughed, its injuries sang in agony in time with the lyrium’s wailing song, hands touched bare and bruised skin when they weren’t creating the bruises, breaking already broken bones.

It hurt, it hurt so much, and those memories, the ones so familiar and yet so foreign, they tormented it when its eyes closed. Whose memories were these? It didn’t know, but it thought it should. The answer eluded it, slipping out of its grasp like smoke even as it tried to chase it, tried to find answers to all the fragments dancing around its mind. Who was the smiling dwarf the red song made it remember? Who were the others that slipped in and out of the corners of its mind; the redhead knight, the laughing pirate, the little elf girl with a smile like sunshine, the sad-eyed mage girl? The dark-haired woman with the brilliant amber eyes, the dark-skinned elf whose whole being sang? The others, the figures in silver and blue that stood in the shadows and watched?

Who were they? Who had it been? It didn’t remember. It was all smoke and fragments and a need to help and heal.

It fought to recall anything, grasp at the mist and shards of memory in its head and try to _know_. To find something to hold onto amid the seeming endless pain the Templars brought.

And then. And then, when it could feel its body fading, faltering, heartbeat slowing and breath shallow...it clutched at the shards one more time, one more final desperate bid for something, anything, to ground it in this realm of pain and agony and misery.

And then Justice _remembered_.

He howled, the noise the only thing he could think to make.  What had he done? What had become of them? Of him, of Anders? After Kirkwall, they had run, tried to hide, and in so doing, in running away, had fallen so far that they had lost themselves. No one had been there to help them, to support them, and they had become an _it_.

And now they had been captured, tortured, and now Anders was dying. And now Justice could barely do a thing, so bound in red lyrium he was. The Templars had broken his body, and the spirit within could just watch in horror as the last sparks slipped away.

 **_“No!”_ ** Justice roared suddenly. No. No, he would not allow this. Anders would not die. He had to face his justice as surely as the spirit had to face his own. And for the mage, his justice was to fix what they had broken. That was the sentence Hawke had passed down surely as any judge. And Justice would not see his friend fail, not here reliving the worst parts of his life, alone in a dark cell.

He heard the chime of armor and the sharp trill of red lyrium, and his eyes narrowed. He knew what he would do. Free him and save him, and that would be the justice he deserved for harming his friend, for causing him pain. He had just wanted to help, just wanted to carry out his purpose, and he had instead become vengeance. And he knew he must make it right.

 **_“I am sorry, Anders,”_ ** he murmured, knowing the man wouldn’t hear it. **_“Live for our sake, and live to see justice done. Real justice.”_ **

The Templars burst into the room, and Justice lit up, eyes blazing and broken body shattering with cracks of light, and every single wisp of being the spirit called his own blazed out of him, an electric blue supernova that engulfed everything.

                                                                                   ---------------------

The man named Anders woke among ashes and rubble. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know anything for a brief, terrifying moment. And then everything shuddered back into place, and he moaned, closing his eyes against the too-bright sun. Everything hurt, everything ached, but-- oh. Everything else came back to him, and he realized he was alive. His bones were mended, bruises were healed. He ached, and he had scars...but he was whole. And alive.

And alone.

“Justice?” He said softly, sitting up and wrapping thin arms around his bony frame. “Justice?”

There was no answer, and he knew then that there wouldn’t be one.

He let out an animal moan and curled in on himself, pressing hands to his temples and shaking, swallowing sobs. He was alone. His head felt empty, he felt so small and lost. What was he supposed to do without Justice? Everything felt skewed, off-kilter. The world was too big, too bright, too loud.

But he could think; his head was clearer than it had been in years. He could focus. It was hard to fight past the panic quickening his breaths and pressing against his skull, but he tried to think. Memories were sorted like shuffling cards back in place, everything going where it should. Varric, Aveline, Isabela, Merrill, Bethany. Hawke, Fenris. The Warden-Commander and the others. The Ferelden Circle, Amaranthine, Kirkwall. Templars and fleeing and freedom and then Justice. And then the Cause, and then corruption turning him inwards and cutting out distractions -- food, sleep, friends, love -- one by one until he was alone as the ashes of the Chantry cooled.

And here he was now. Captured by Templars who sung red and wrong, tortured in every way he had always feared, left broken and dying...and then Justice had sacrificed everything the spirit was to make him live. And if the debris was any indication, he had burned out the whole damn building to do it. He was almost proud.

He stood, shuddering. He was cold -- all he wore was a thin and shabby tunic and pants, patched and threadbare to go with old scuffed boots, and his health was still poor even with the healed wounds (self-inflicted starvation had made a scarecrow out of him, all limbs and sunken cheeks). And he hurt. His body ached and his mind was on the razor’s edge of panic, and his soul was raw and exposed, as if Justice’s final blaze had left it wide open behind him.

He swallowed, stumbling through the destroyed building, and out the door, leaning against a tree. Where was he? He glanced up, squinting, and the night sky told him somewhere south. Ferelden? Probably. Near the Frostbacks, maybe. He shuddered, shaking his head. What was he supposed to do now?

He pressed his head against the rough bark, trying to think, and like a bolt of lightning it hit him. Fix things. Make it right. The Chantry, the destruction...Maker, they had been such fools. Justice had convinced him he knew what was right for all mages, that this was the only choice and that they would all rally with him. And he had corrupted justice into vengeance with the pain and anger he’d tried so hard to lock away behind his smiles and jokes. And now the only thing he could do was try to put the pieces back together. Nothing would be the same, but he could try.

He had to try. This was why Hawke had spared him, right? To make up for what he’d done. And coward he was, he’d hid and nearly destroyed himself. He straightened, wincing as his aching body protested. First he’d find the nearest town, get some food and sleep, and then he’d figure out where to go from there.

But wherever he went...he’d help. He’d try to fix things.

Because that’s why he was alive, after all. So that’s what he’d do. No more running -- he’d make this right.


	2. Chapter 1: In Hushed Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wanders into Redcliffe just in time for the rebel mages to turn up, and things swiftly go downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is my Inquisitor, ladies and gents. Miss Viruth Lavellan. Big sweet cinnamon roll of a Dalish rogue. 
> 
> And also, Varric!!! Maker help me I hope I am writing him okay.
> 
> (also the appearance, if you pay attention, of my headcanon for Anders' real name c:)  
> (and ALSO if you pay attention, mention of my warden! Briallen Cousland, the sassy redhead queen of ferelden, if you please)

**Ch. 1 -- In Hushed Whispers**

 

It was a few days of walking, exhausted and aching, until he wandered into a town. He’d very nearly passed out on the floor of the inn, but thankfully the innkeep was kind enough to take pity and give him a room in exchange for his help around the place. Later he was told he had slept for two full days, which bemused him, and in turn he caused the innkeep some bemusement with his voracious appetite for someone so thin.

After he’d recovered enough to start helping (mostly with cleaning and waiting on the bar patrons), he was able to ask questions. In so doing, he discovered he was in Ferelden after all, in the town of Redcliffe.

He had other questions, too -- ones he was more cautious about asking, as he knew most people likely should know the answers to them. It was only because he had been so far gone with Justice that he didn't. But he asked anyway; the innkeep didn't mind telling him everything he knew about that hole in the sky, the one that pulsed with magic and made his head hurt to look at.

Hearing about the explosion at the Conclave made him ill -- they had been so close to an end, and then it had been ruined -- but the so-called Herald interested him. This Breach was causing the Veil to tear like old fabric, and the Herald could close the ensuing rifts. The mage in him was fascinated, even as the man felt so terribly guilty. If he hadn't...then maybe the Conclave wouldn't have even been necessary.

But he couldn't dwell on that, he knew, or he’d crack and slide into one of his melancholies. And he couldn't afford that, not when he had things to do. Not when he was already trying to come up with a way to join the Inquisition. To help them.

When he heard the rebel mages -- or at least some of them, led by Grand Enchanter Fiona -- were coming to stop in Redcliffe a few weeks after his recovery, he almost ran. But he didn't. No more running, he had told himself, after all. So he cut his hair short and messy, and shaved off his stubble. That and the lack of a staff made him well enough hidden. And after all, no one here knew him as Anders. Rambert Costin couldn't possibly be the mage who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry.

He offered his skill in potion-making to the rebels, and his skills as a healer that didn't involve magic (something more than necessary to have learned in his years in the run) -- they were duly appreciated, and no one looked at him too closely as long as he was an ally to them. They were that desperate, it seemed.

Unfortunately, it seemed like he’d massively underestimated just how desperate they were, and by the time he had gotten to the inn, Fiona was reluctantly shaking the hand of a man he recognized on sight as a Tevinter. Only a magister could look that slimy and smile that smugly while reeking of magic; he could almost hear Fenris in his head, swearing furiously. 

It was almost funny, he reflected later that evening. These mages had been fighting for their freedom, or at least trying to keep it, and now they were slaves. And to add to the irony, their new master was a mage, too. He almost wondered what Fenris would think, if he would be as willing to condemn slavery or offer his aid if those slaves were mages.

It was a thought that occupied him the next few days, even as unrest and unease rippled through the rebels, barely any of them happy with the arrangement. Neither was he; though he was hiding his magic, hiding his identity, he hated the situation as much as any of the rebels. And worse still because he couldn't do anything, and had sworn not to run again.

He was carrying some elfroot potions to the guards at the front gate to restock their supply when a pulse ripped through the Veil in the area (already somehow altered, and he wasn't stupid enough to think the magister wasn't behind that) and he stumbled, barely keeping hold of the potions. The Veil was screaming, and he could see green light and feel demons. A rift, then. Right in front of the bloody gates. He could feel it, sharper and louder than he knew the others could -- Justice’s stay had left its mark, and he felt the Fade more deeply than most.

He shuddered and shook his head, grabbing the nearest village boy and shoving the potions in his arms. “Take these to the guards when the rift closes,” he ordered, and tore off to the gates. Before he could get there, though, he watched the rift snap shut, and there were people there, the leader’s hand glowing green.

“The Herald,” he said, before he could stop himself, and the girl in question, leading her group into the town, looked startled, smiling sheepishly.

“Hi,” she said, and he looked her over. She was tiny, a little Dalish elf with pale blonde hair and golden eyes, vallaslin marking forehead and chin and a pair of daggers on her back. “That's me, I guess.”

He had to smile at that, and she returned the gesture. “Still not used to it?” He asked, and she nodded. “I'd figure. You're...not what I was expecting, you know. Kind of picturing some boring old guy or a girl all dressed up as Andraste.”

The girl laughed. “Yeah, I’m still sort of expecting this to be a dream, honestly,” she admitted. “It's so strange. Especially, you know. Being an elf and all.”

“Oh, I bet,” he replied. “No wonder I hear the Chantry is collectively pissing themselves. Good on you, I say.”

She laughed again. “Oh, yes,” she agreed. “We’re all dirty heretics, did you know? Lord Seeker Lucius threatened me in the middle of Val Royeaux. Everyone run, the Herald is a little Dalish girl. How scary.” She giggled. “I'm Viruth, by the way.”

He grinned back. “Terrifying,” he agreed. “I may swoon. I'm Rambert. Can I ask what brings such an important person as yourself to Redcliffe, or is it secret?”

Her brow furrowed, and she looked puzzled. “We...were invited,” she said slowly. “Grand Enchanter Fiona met us in Val Royeaux, invited us here.”

“What?” He asked, frowning. “She hasn’t left Redcliffe since the mages got here.”

There's a long, almost anxious silence, and then for the first time, one of her companions spoke. “Well, that isn't suspicious at all, Marigold,” the voice said dryly, and Anders very nearly had a panic attack. His eyes went to the speaker, and it only confirmed what the voice and the nickname told him. Varric, looking the same as always. Same coat, same gold jewelry, and of course, Bianca. 

“Oh, no, not at all,” Viruth agreed with a laugh, saving Anders from his momentary terror by distracting the whole group. “There is definitely something going on here. That rift was...different. Right, Solas?”

Anders’ eyes flickered to the man being addressed when he spoke, and he turned out to be an oddly tall elf, bald and high-cheekboned, with a staff on his back. “It was,” he said thoughtfully. “And the Veil is...off, here. Too thin, and altered somehow.”

He wanted to agree, but he couldn’t. He was risking a lot just by being in Varric’s presence. The dwarf would probably recognize him quickly, if he were to give him the chance. But he felt like he had to help somehow, so he spoke up anyway.

“If the Veil’s weird, I think I might know the why, if not the how,” he said, and all eyes turned to him. He winced, but pushed on. “I...think it would be better if I showed you, though. I’ll take you to Fiona and you can see for yourselves.”

Viruth nodded with a smile, and gestured to him as if her companions had never seen him before. “This is Rambert,” she said brightly, and Varric snorted.

“We know, Marigold, we were paying attention,” he teased her gently. “Name’s Varric Tethras, kid. The elf is Solas, and the walking beard is Blackwall.”

Anders grinned nervously, lifting his hand to wiggle it in a wave. “Hi. Like I said, name’s Rambert.” He paused, deciding to risk something, and adds “Didn’t you write a book? About Kirkwall?” He smiled slightly. “I liked it. Not the ending, but did  _ anyone  _ like that?”

“Ha!” Varric snorted, and shook his head. “Not a soul, Bl--” He had to cut himself off, and Anders swore he nearly shit himself as the dwarf gave him a funny look, but then he shrugged, and left it at that.

Viruth gave Varric an odd look as well, but didn’t press. “Lead the way, Rambert,” she said, and he nodded, showing them the way to the inn. Once there, he gestured at the door. “Go on in,” he said lightly. “I’ll wait here.”

They all headed in, but Varric stopped at the doorway, frowning. “Okay,” he said finally. “Do I know you? Because I swear I’ve seen you before, and I don’t forget faces.”

“I-I, uh--” He tried, and something crossed Varric’s face and he opens his mouth and takes a step forward, but Blackwall called him from inside, and he stopped, sighing. He shrugged, pointing at Anders in an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture, and disappeared inside, allowing Anders to slide down against the wall with a muffled whimper. 

Shit, shit shit. Varric knew. Varric  _ knew _ . He was utterly fucked. Varric would reveal it or kill him or something and he was so fucked. He put his head between his knees, trying to steady his breathing, and managed to eventually calm himself down. If that was going to happen, he’d face it. He had to face it. He stood, leaning against the wall again, and steeled himself. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever Varric would do, but it was probably better than Fenris.

It didn’t take very long after that for the meeting to conclude, and Viruth was the first one out, her face white with rage. She spun on Anders, grabbing the collar of his tunic and shaking him in helpless frustration. “Tevinter!” She yelled. “ _ Tevinter! _ Why would she--  _ fenedhis! _ ”

He managed to grab her hands and hold her in place, and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, “But I’m almost positive if there’s something off here, he’s behind it,” he told her. “Can you please stop rattling my brain out of my head now?”

She let go, and looked embarrassed. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m just...I just...I can’t believe she did that. It doesn’t feel right…” She sighed, and looked around, leaning in slightly. “His son gave me a note, to meet him at the Chantry,” she said. “I have to go. Can you show us where it is?”

“What if it’s a trap?” Anders asked, before he could stop himself. It was Varric who answered.

“If it’s a trap, we bust some heads,” he said with a snort. “If it’s not, we get some information. Win win. Not the craziest thing I’ve ever done.” The last sentence was directed almost pointedly at Anders, and he couldn’t help the flinch.

He sighed. “Okay, fine,” he agreed. “I’ll show you to the Chantry.” And he did, gesturing at the door and immediately stumbling as Viruth pushed past him, heading straight toward the glimmering green rift in the middle of the building.

Of course, he thought dryly, as the Herald and her group -- and the Tevinter mage who showed up -- fought off the demons and closed the rift. Nothing is ever, ever easy. 

After that, the mage, Dorian, explained himself and the situation rather succinctly, and Anders found himself rolling his eyes, despite his fascination. Leave it to a magister to come up with new and exciting ways to trample on the fabric of reality. He could almost hear his sarcasm in Fenris’s voice, and he thought that should scare him a bit. When did his inner voice end up the elf? 

Either way, there wasn’t much more the Inquisition could do without much influence, as fledgling a group as they were, so it was with some regret they left, hoping to gain enough notoriety to bargain with the magister.

Anders almost, almost spoke up then. He almost reached out to Varric, grabbed his shoulder, said ‘yes, it’s me, let me help you’. But his nerves failed him, and he let them leave. When they returned, he told himself. 

When they returned, he’d help them.

                                                                                     -------------

And it was a month or two before they did, riding in towards the Redcliffe castle that the magister, Alexius, took over. Viruth noticed him as she passed, and waved. He waved back, and watched the others pass as well. Varric was still there, and he wasn't surprised. The dwarf had a way with people. Along with him was the Tevinter from last time, oddly, and a dark-haired woman he didn’t know with the Seeker’s sigil on her armor.

He waited a moment, torn, before taking a deep breath and following them.

He watched them meet with a red-haired woman he vaguely recognized as someone who had visited the Warden-Commander once or twice, and split off again. The red-haired woman martialed some soldiers and led them off somewhere, and after a moment he followed her. Their path led to an abandoned windmill and a secret entrance in the floor, and after a long moment’s hesitation after they go through, he followed.

The basement he walked through was dark, but he summoned a little wisp to light his path, edging through the halls until he came across the arl’s audience chamber. He dismissed the little wisp and peeked into the room in time to see the magister pull out some kind of pendant from somewhere, a spell going off and lighting the room. Dorian cast a spell to ostensibly protect the group only for the light to engulf him and Viruth-- and then reality wobbled and a moment later they stumbled forward as if pushed, somehow the worse for wear.

There was some yelling and bullshit about something called the Elder One (which concerned him), and more yelling, and then something about the magister’s son, and the familiar pressure in his head that screamed ‘taint’ raised its head, and he figured out pretty quickly what was wrong with Felix. 

And then King Alistair proceeded to turn up, and whatever concern he had towards the young tainted Tevinter and morbid curiosity in regards to the Elder One went out the window, and he edged further out of the doorway, mentally chanting every curse he knew. Alistair knew his face. Alistair had met him, twice. Once when the Warden recruited him, and once in Kirkwall, and shit shit shit. He didn’t know what was worse, the thought that the king would kill him on sight, or the thought that he’d send him to his wife.

The man seemed more serious than he recalls, and for some reason that worried him (it’s the Warden in him), but at least he did sound genuinely regretful to have to kick the mages out of Ferelden. And at least Viruth immediately reminded them why she was there -- to give the mages a place in the Inquisition. 

The black-haired woman decided to suggest conscription, which Anders made a face over -- that would make the Inquisition just as bad as the magister or the Circles; and at least Dorian understood that (oddly) -- but then Varric spoke up, and he swore his heart skipped a beat. 

“I’ve known a lot of mages,” the dwarf said. “They can be loyal friends, if you let them.” He paused, and chuckled almost nostalgically, a somewhat amused expression on his face. “Friends who make bad decisions, but still. Loyal.”

Oh. Anders had to cover his mouth to stifle the absolutely-not-a-sob that nearly gave him away. Faint praise -- and possibly, or probably referring to Merrill -- but with the fact that he was pretty damn sure the dwarf knew he was in Redcliffe...almost certainly intentional. He’d been terrified that Varric was angry with him, or held a grudge, but...maybe not.

The king left after that, and Fiona left the room as well to start getting the rebels ready to leave, and Anders moved to sneak back out --  but before he could do so, a pair of hands grabbed him roughly, and he found himself hauled out before Viruth and her companions, the redhead holding him by the arm and the back of his neck. “Who are you?” She demanded, and Anders found himself unable to speak through the sudden rush of terror.

The black-haired woman drew her sword, her eyes narrowing, and he let out a squeak. Viruth stepped in between them, though, holding her arms out to stop her. “Cassandra,  _ no _ ,” she said. “I recognize him. He’s from Redcliffe. His name is Rambert. He was good to us, he helped us when we were here last. Right, Varric?”

Anders glanced at the dwarf, eyes wide and panicked, and the man just smiled slightly. “Right,” he agreed. “I can vouch for him.” Their eyes met, and Varric just nodded once, almost invisibly.

“Fine,” Cassandra snapped. “But that does not explain why he’s here. Or how he got here.”

Anders laughed nervously. “I-- uh, I followed you,” he said. “Uh, the redhead. I waited a bit, a-and then I followed you through the windmill. And, uh. Then I hid.” He grinned cheekily, but only just -- still too terrified to be openly impertinent. “I’m good at that. The, uh...hiding bit. I’ve had lots of practice.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “That explains the how well enough,” she allowed. “But not the why. Why are you here? Did someone send you?”

Anders opened his mouth, but then it was Varric who answered, and he felt the world sliding underneath him. “I can answer that,” the dwarf said mildly, a smile on his face. “He’s not as cleverly disguised as he seems to think. I mean, come  _ on _ , Blondie, you can do better than a shave and a haircut. I thought you knew better.”

Cassandra opened her mouth, something terrifying in her gaze, but Varric held up a hand to stop her and continued. “I recognized him almost soon as he opened his mouth, honestly,” he admitted. “But I let him be, ‘til I could figure what he was doing here. You really threw me off with the whole ‘not using magic’ thing, you know,” he added. “Anyway, Seeker, he’s fine. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m pretty sure he’s harmless.”

_ “Harmless?!” _ Cassandra exploded as soon as the dwarf finished, and Anders cringed. “This is-- this is Anders! This is the mage who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry! You condemned him not too long ago, and now you defend him?!” She spun on Anders, expression murderous. “You! Explain yourself! I want to hear it from  _ you--  _ what are you doing here?!”

Anders squeaked, whimpering quietly and trying to look smaller even though the redhead still held him. “I-I--” He tried, and he heard a voice above him, a little far away.

“Cassandra, please,” the redhead said. “He is panicking. Don’t press him-- frightened animals bite back, and he is not one I think we wish to force to that point.” The hands released him, and turned him around, and then he found himself looking into a pair of clear greyish-blue eyes, warm hands holding his face steady. “Breathe,” she said softly. “We will not harm you, Anders. We just need you to answer the question-- why are you here?”

Anders managed to start breathing normally again, though his hands were still shaking. At last he didn’t have to stare at the Seeker -- all he could think was Templar -- and her anger. “I-I want to help,” he said weakly. “I know-- I know what I did was wrong. I know I-I can’t change it. But I want to...I want to do what I can. I was-- I was scared, but I thought-- I thought I could help you, help the Inquisition. Do something to make it right.”

There’s a silence, and Cassandra started speaking, but Viruth spoke over her. “I say he comes with us, then,” she said. “I read the book, too. I know-- I think we all know what he did. But...if he really wants to fix it, I want to let him. He deserves to at least try.”

Cassandra’s murderous expression faltered at the Herald’s approval, but she still didn’t relent. “What about the spirit?” She demanded. “That--  _ thing _ , Varric spoke of. Justice. If it still exists, he is a constant threat, no matter his intentions.”

Varric winced, but glanced at Anders apologetically. “She’s got a point, Blondie. Your glowing pal’s...not known for being warm and fuzzy.” He paused. “Though I’d think with you panicking like that, he’d be out here growling at us all by now.”

“Y-Yeah,” Anders said, laughing weakly and finally turning around. “He would be, i-if he were here.” There was a shocked silence, and he pressed on in its wake. “He...he gave his life to save mine. I was-- I was dying, and he sacrificed himself for me.” He smiled, but it trembled and didn’t reach his eyes. “So you can all throw a party, because I’m not an abomination.”

“Gone?” Cassandra snapped. “Just like that? You expect us to  _ believe  _ that?” 

Varric looked at Anders a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I know I do. I can see it in his eyes. That’s Blondie in there, and it sure as hell wasn’t the last time I saw him.”

Dorian took that moment to cough. “Ah, pardon me,” he said lightly. “I have no idea what’s going on here, and though it’s quite the little drama you all are putting on, I think that if there’s anyone besides him qualified to know if there’s a spirit riding sidesaddle on our new friend, it’s me.” He stepped forward, studying Anders with an intensity he only remembered seeing in Isabela’s eyes, and smiled. “If you don’t mind…?”

Anders nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “If it proves I’m telling the truth…”

“Good on you,” Dorian said approvingly, and flicked his wrist. A spark of bright magic leaped forth, striking Anders in the chest, and he  _ felt  _ it jolt through his body and send him to the floor, where he lay groaning for a long moment. He left his eyes closed, riding out the residual jitters, and he heard Dorian speak. “Well, if there was a spirit or demon or what have you, I know he wouldn’t like that spell much. So...no reaction, no spirit.”

Cassandra let out a breath between clenched teeth, and shook her head. “Fine!” She snapped as Anders sat up. “Fine. It’s up to the Herald, in the end, and she has already given her approval, after all,” she muttered. “So I suppose he comes with us.”

Viruth smiled, stepping forward to help Anders stand. “I did say that,” she agreed. “I...I saw what happens, if we fail,” she said quietly. “And if we want to stop that, we need all the help we can get. If he wants to help...he comes with us.”

Anders grinned a little, once he was upright, brushing his threadbare clothes off. “Thanks,” he said, and he tries to put as much sincerity as he can in it. “I-- thanks. I won’t let you down.”

Varric clapped him on the back as they all leave, and it’s with a lighter heart that Anders mounted a horse alongside them. He might not be able to reverse what he’d done, bring Elthina back or rebuilt the Chantry, but he could help close the Breach, help make  _ something  _ right in this whole mess he’d helped create.

  
Now if only the rest of the Inquisition doesn’t kill him on sight.


	3. Chapter 2: In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun happy reunions! Ex-Templars and darkspawn, what a great day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this is probably a lot more...short, than most. Going quicker. IDK.
> 
> But I hope it's good! Also, angry Cullen is angry and poor Anders' nerves can't take much more of this.
> 
> As an aside, I realize Varric isn't all that angry at Anders, but seriously, Varric struck me as the type to just say 'fuck it' about holding that kind of grudge, especially against a friend. Too much work to stay angry, especially in the circumstances. Not that he's completely forgiven our magey friend, of course, but he's not going to give him shit, either.

**Ch. 2 -- In Your Heart Shall Burn**

 

It was several days of riding before they reached Haven, and the fact that Leliana -- the redhead -- had sent a bird ahead with the news of their deeds (and mostly likely, his presence) did nothing to ease his sense of mounting terror. Varric had warned him that their old friend Cullen was part of the Inquisition, and that had scared him as it was. As they got closer, he felt himself starting to panic again, and pressed his face into his horse’s mane, trying to breathe. Maybe if he sat low enough, he could simply sneak by unseen?

But no such luck, it seemed. Cullen was waiting at the front gates, and after surveying the riders, he strode forward and nearly yanked Anders off his horse as he came to a halt, both hands fisting in the mage’s collar and dragging him off the saddle and into the air, toes barely scuffing the dirt. Anders let out a choked yelp, eyes wide and breath quick and frightened.

“You!” Cullen snarled, shaking him firmly. “As if it wasn’t enough that we chose to ally with the mages,  _ you  _ come with them! Haven’t you done enough?!”

Anders scrabbled at Cullen’s arms, letting out a quick breathy giggle. “Y-Yes!” He said desperately. “I have! I d-did enough! That’s why I’m-- I want to-- I want to fix it!”

“You think you can fix what you did in Kirkwall?” The man demanded. “You think you can bring the Grand Cleric back, repair the Chantry,  _ end the war? _ Do you  _ really  _ think you can fix all of that?” 

Anders whimpered, and it was Leliana who stepped forward, putting a hand on Cullen’s arm. “Cullen,” she said gently, but there was a razor’s edge in her voice that made him stop. “He knows he can’t fix it, not entirely,” she said. “But he wants to try. And is that not all any of us can do to right our mistakes? Try?”

Cullen let out a huff of air and dropped him, and Anders stumbled back against his horse, coughing and trembling. “Fine,” the former Templar muttered. “Go ahead and try. But I’m watching you, Anders.  _ Closely _ .”

“F-Fine by me,” Anders muttered, mouth twitching bitterly. “I-It isn’t like I’m not used to Templars watching me.” He straightened, letting the soldiers take the horses, and let Varric grab his arm, steering him into Haven’s walls and towards a crackling campfire, sitting him down and letting him calm himself.

“You alright now, Blondie?” Varric asked finally, and Anders smiled slightly, looking up at him from his spot sitting by the fire. “How’ve you been?” His face softened slightly. “I don’t really like hearing the whole ‘nearly died’ bit, and I won’t tell Hawke, promise-- but you gotta tell me. What happened?”

Anders barked a shaky laugh. “Well, Templars,” he admitted. “I was in pretty bad shape, uh...it was bad. Justice and I…” He shrugged. “It’s kind of fuzzy. But some Templars found us, and...I don’t know how long they had me, but long enough to nearly kill me, and then Justice did his thing, and I woke up lying in rubble.” 

He didn’t mention the red lyrium. That was something...that was something bad, and he knew he’d regret keeping it from Varric, but after Bartrand...he didn’t want to tell him. Varric didn’t need to know, unless it got bad. 

And he realized it might; what the Templars had said about a master...that didn’t bode well with what they’d learned. But...later, he promised himself. Later.

Varric just sighed. “Well...at least you’re alive. I’d thank him, if he weren’t, y’know...gone.” He laughed. “No offense, but better him than you, Blondie. I’m glad you’re alright.” A pause, and he grinned. “And you’ve clearly learned better than your whole ‘witness me, for I am the champion and savior of magekind, all shall tremble before my almighty selflessness and compassion’ shtick, yeah?”

The pair of them laughed, and Anders turned suddenly to wrap his arms around the dwarf in a tight hug. Varric made a surprised noise, but let him, patting him on the back. “I--I’m glad you’re...thanks, Varric,” Anders managed, trying not to sound too choked up. “I was afraid you would want to kill me, o-or...I don’t know. I was...I was afraid. When you recognized me, I thought...so thank you.”

“Nah,” Varric said with a grin, patting him again. “It’s too much effort to hold a grudge, especially with you acting like a kicked puppy.” He snorted. “Besides, Hawke would kill me if I killed you. Last time we spoke, she made it pretty clear she’s still dead set on giving you another chance.” He pushed Anders away, meeting his gaze seriously. “So here’s your chance, Blondie. Don’t screw this up, okay? I think this chance is your last.”

Anders managed a weak smile. “I won’t screw it up,” he promised. “For her sake, and for mine.”  _ And his, _ that annoying little voice in the back of his head that sounded like Fenris said, and he sighed inwardly and agreed. And his. 

“Good to hear,” Varric said with a grin, all smiles again. “Now, let’s get the hell out of the cold and go see what trouble our Herald is getting into, mm?”

Anders snorted. “Sounds like a plan. How do we keep on getting mixed up in this stuff, anyway?”

“Shit luck and bad timing, I’d say. But I’m not complaining. I’m getting used to the idea my life’s on a crash course to irrevocably weird.”

Anders stood, and they entered the Chantry. As they walked down the hall, Viruth entered from a side room, rubbing frantically at her face -- Anders could tell she’d been crying, but was polite enough not to say anything. She tried on a smile as they approached, fixing it on her face like a mask. “Anders, Varric, hi,” she said. “We’re going to be closing the breach soon, with the mages’ help. Can I count on you to be there?”

“Of course, Marigold,” Varric said with a grin. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

                                                                                       ----------------

And so the hole was closed. Anders had pitched his own magic in to help, and joined the crowd of exhausted mages helping each other back to Haven. He was almost giddy, his head feeling filled with bubbles -- it had been so long since he’d used his magic; months, not since Justice left. And now he’d just drained himself dry. Maker, it felt  _ good _ . And even better, the Breach was gone.

And of course, after the victory came the after-party. Merriment and revelry well into the night, drinking and laughing and dancing. Varric, being...well, Varric, had collected a small army of rapt listeners, and he regaled them all with tales of the Champion of Kirkwall. The Qunari mercenary that had joined the Inquisition, Iron Bull, made the dwarf recount a blow-by-blow story of her fight with the Arishok, and laughed uproariously the whole time. Anders decided he liked him, and when the storytelling was over, invited him to join himself and Varric for a game of Wicked Grace. Bull accepted, and somehow they were also joined by Krem, Bull’s second, and the skinny elvish archer named Sera.

They had been having a grand time, swapping mad tales amid hands of cards and mugs of ale, when a commotion began and grew louder and more insistent until it was rather obvious they were being attacked. The card-players abandoned their game and split up, and it was Varric and Anders who ran into Viruth, Cassandra at her side, on their way to the front gates.

“What in the hell is going on?” Anders demanded, once they arrived at the gates to Haven, Cullen standing in front of them shouting orders.

The former Templar shook his head helplessly, pointing over the mountains. “A massive force is attacking,” he explained. “The bulk of them are beyond the mountain, and-- and we don’t know who they are. We can’t tell. They fly no banner.”

“No banner?” Josephine -- the Antivan noblewoman and political aide -- asked, startled. “Then what--”

The gates chose that moment to rattle, and all heads turned to look at it as a young voice called from the other side. “Let me in! I can’t get in if you don’t open the gates!” 

Viruth was sprinting down the path before the last word faded out of the air, and the gates swung open. There was an armored knight standing there, sword drawn, and she paused, but the knight fell forward, hitting the ground with a solid thump. Behind him stood a skinny young man, a floppy, wide-brimmed hat hiding his eyes. A knife was in his hand, and he looked up, darting to Viruth and looking skittish.

“I’m Cole,” he said, without preamble. “I came to warn you. They’re here to hurt you.”

Viruth’s brow furrowed, and she raised her hands slightly to calm him. “Who?” She asked. “Cole, is it? Who are they? What’s going on?”

“The Templars,” Cole replied, and jumped as Cullen reacted, an angry noise in the back of his throat. 

“What?!” He demanded. “Is this how they react to our talks with the mages? Blind assault?!”

Cole shook his head, looking rather like an awkward ragdoll. “The red Templars went to the Elder One,” he said simply, and Anders couldn’t hold back the swear that slipped out of his mouth. “He knows you,” he told Viruth. “You took his mages. He’s angry.” He pointed up and away, and all eyes followed his finger to a distant hill. 

A man in armor was standing there, chest bright with lyrium, the crimson glow and discordant song burning into Anders’ mind from where he stood, and he winced. And then someone else appeared, materializing from shadows, and suddenly the red lyrium seemed incredibly unimportant, because he recognized the figure. And he knew Varric did too, without needing to hear him swear loudly. Anders, for his part, made a horrified choking noise as the sound of the lyrium was joined by another voice that he had hoped never to have to listen to again. 

The call of the darkspawn.

It was Corypheus that stood there, impassively overlooking the approaching army.

“Oh, fuck,” he managed, hand going to Varric’s shoulder for support. “Oh,  _ fuck _ .”

For his part, Cullen seemed to still be focused on the other man, turning to rally the soldiers behind him. “I know him,” he muttered, drawing his blade. “We stand together! That man is Samson, he won’t be taken down easily! Come, we must protect the stronghold!  _ Together!” _

The soldiers darted forward with a cry, and the battle began. Anders and Varric stuck with Viruth and the Seeker, and to his surprise Solas seemed to materialize from somewhere to join them.

The soldiers they helped combat the Templars directed them to protect the nearby trebuchet as it launched its projectile, and they were successful -- managing an avalanche that crushed many of the enemy troops -- but it did not last long. Whatever advantage they had gained was taken back with a roar, a dragon -- a hideous, deformed thing, black and pulsing with the call of the darkspawn loud enough to make Anders’ already screaming headache worse -- swooping across the battlefield, fire gushing from its twisted jaws.

“You have  _ got  _ to be joking!” Varric yelled, and the group joined the rest of the army sprinting for the gates, grabbing anyone in their path and pulling them along into the Chantry with the rest of the survivors.

As the Chantry doors finally slammed shut, Anders let out a moan, sinking down against the wall as the scattered people hiding in the building looked around, trying to catch their breath. 

“Andraste’s perky blasted bosom,” Anders swore between gasps of air, ignoring the dirty looks he got from those religious members of the group. “I thought we killed Corypheus! I should know, I was there! And now he’s here, and-- and bloody hell, he has a  _ dragon  _ with him?” And red Templars. Now he was extremely glad Justice had saved him from being taken to their ‘master’, now that he knew who it was.

Cole glanced up from where he was tending to a wounded Chantry cleric. “I saw an Archdemon once,” he said absently. “I was in the Fade. It looked like that.”

“Oh, lovely,” Anders muttered. “Someone call the fucking Wardens.”

Varric elbowed him. “You’re a Warden, smart guy, and so is Blackwall,” he reminded him brightly. “We’re about set.”

Anders didn’t want to tell him that he hadn’t sensed even a whisper of the taint in the bearded man, so he remained quiet, snorting softly. Cullen seemed to speak enough for him, anyway, pacing back and forth down the hall, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t  _ care  _ what it is,” he snapped. “It’s not going to stop until it burns down the whole blasted village!”

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole said, watching Cullen move, his head swinging slowly back and forth to his movements. “He just wants the Herald.”

Viruth shook her head, leaning against the wall. “But...but why?” She asked, her face pale. “Cole,  why does he want me so badly?”

“I don’t know,” the boy admitted. “He’s very loud...it hurts to hear him. He wants to kill you. He doesn’t care about anyone else, but he’ll kill them too, if they get in his way. I don’t like him.”

Andes managed a smile; the kid...there was something about him that made Anders almost instinctively protective of the boy. “I don’t think anyone likes him, Cole,” he said. “But...either way, we’re trapped. What do we do?”

“We managed to slow them with that avalance,” Cullen said. “We could man the rest of the trebuchets, try one more time. It’s our only option, at this point.”

Viruth blinked, straightening. “But if we do that, we bury Haven,” she said slowly.

“We’re dying, anyway,” Cullen said bitterly, a humorless smile twisting his face. “Might as well make a choice as to how.”

Anders started up at the ex-Templar. “You know, I really don’t like that plan, Cullen,” he said conversationally. “Dying’s not on my to-do list...well, ever.”

“Then  _ run,  _ like you seem to be good at,” Cullen snapped. “What else do you want us to do, create a miracle?”

Anders flinched at the comment; Cullen likely didn’t know how accurate that statement was, an it hurt. But before he could retort back, Cole spoke again, glancing up at the wounded Chantry cleric. “Yes, that,” he said, as if answering a question only he could hear. “Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to show you before he dies.”

“There’s...a passage,” Roderick managed, standing painfully. “You would...only know about it...if you were here before, at...at the summer retreat. I had...forgotten. You can get everyone out...that way.” He chuckled mirthlessly, looking at Viruth. “She must have-- Andraste must have shown me...so I could tell you, Herald…”

Viruth shook her head, running her own hands through his hair. “Even if-- even if we got out,” she protested, her voice brittle with nerves. “That thing-- the dragon-- it’s  _ flying _ .”

“It won’t stray far from the Elder One,” Cole told her. “It’s here for you.”

Viruth blinked. And then her face set, and she looked at Cullen, and he nodded at her. “I’ll get everyone out,” he answered her unspoken decision. “Some of our men will load the trebuchets. You keep its eyes on you.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Our best bet -- your best bet -- is to make him  _ hear _ you.”

“I...will pray for you,” the Chancellor said, and they departed. Varric, Anders, and Cassandra remained behind, Cassandra rechecking her armor while the other two looked at each other.

Anders sighed. “Once more into the face of ridiculous amounts of danger and certain death to protect a reckless do-gooder?” He asked Varric, who snorted.

“Once more, Blondie, and with any luck many times to come,” he said, and with nods at each other, they headed into the snow.

They fought their way through yet more red Templars, finally managing to get to the final remaining trebuchet. The three companions -- Varric and Bianca, Cassandra and her sword and shield, and Anders and the staff he’d borrowed from a mage fleeing with Cullen and the rest -- formed a half-circle around Viruth as she labored to turn the crank, aiming the catapult at the cliffside.

They fought so hard Anders lost track of time, his breaths coming heavy as he burned through his mana, the red lyrium and call of the darkspawn ripping through his head and making it scream in pain. His head spun, and frankly it was a miracle he was keeping himself upright.

And then Varric yelled “Oh, shit! They brought the  _ big  _ reinforcements!”

Anders turned to see what Varric was looking at, and blanched, feeling his legs threaten to give out. As if the red Templars hadn’t been bad enough before...this one was a mutant, twisted and terrible, with massive crystals tearing through his deformed, misshapen limbs. “Shit is right,” he gasped, jamming his staff into the snow to hold himself up.

He glanced around, watching Varric fire arrows uselessly at the giant creature, while Cassandra fought to fend off the other Templars from Viruth -- who wasn’t ready with the trebuchet. “Oh, for--” He grunted. Time to do something stupid. He reached into himself, into whatever scraps of mana he had left and then some, as deep as he could go -- and focused it all in one blast of crackling energy, sending it loose towards the creature. His last coherent thought was that he wished he could tell if it actually did something, because he felt himself falling backwards into the snow, and his vision went black.

                                                                                             -----------------

 

When he woke up, Varric was there with him. “Hey, Blondie, have a nice rest?” He asked.

“Yeah, I feel  _ great _ ,” Anders replied, wincing as he sat up. “I only feel like I was run over by two enraged brontos instead of a whole herd.” He chuckled weakly. “What did I miss? Where are we?”

Varric snorted, patting his arm. “Long story short, apparently Corypheus was behind the explosion at the Conclave, and Marigold interrupting his...whatever it was, ritual or something, is how she got the Anchor, which is what he called her magic rift-sealing mark.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “And obviously, he isn’t too happy about that. Of course. Anyway, as far as she could figure from his monologuing, his big plan is to use that Anchor of hers to kick the doors to heaven in, become a god, make Tevinter mighty again, and rule the world. The usual, you know?”

“Oh,” Anders said. “Lovely.” He sighed, letting his head flop back against the cot he was on. “I hate darkspawn. Have I mentioned that?”

“Repeatedly,” Varric said, snickering, and then his face set, going serious. “So, when were you going to mention that you knew about the red lyrium?”

Anders flinched, and Varric sighed. “Knew it. Your reaction when we saw the stuff was pretty telling. Can’t blame you for wanting to save me some headache, Blondie; you were there when we found Bartrand, after all. But…” He fixed him with a look. “If you’d said something, we could have been more prepared.”

“I’m sorry,” Anders said, and he meant it. “It was-- it was the Templars that caught me,” he said, and Varric winced. “They were all those-- those red ones. They said things about taking me to their master, but...Justice killed them all before they could. I didn’t-- I didn’t want to think about it. But when I saw Samson and Corypheus…” He shuddered.

Varric sighed. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. “It’s done with, anyway. And knowing there were Templars using red lyrium wouldn’t have made us any more ready for a whole blasted army  _ and  _ a dragon.” He shook his head. ‘So long as you aren’t keeping anything else a secret…?”

“Nothing,” Anders promised, and thank the Maker he was telling the truth this time. Varric just nodded again.

“Alright, then,” He said. “Now, come on, get up. We’ve all got things to do.”

Anders sighed, rolling off the cot and groaning as he got to his feet, stretching and rubbing his head. He looked around, noting that they were all in a large campsite, probably with what remained of the Inquisition. “We’re a mess,” he  noted dryly, and Varric snorted. “How long have I been out?”

“Few days,” the dwarf replied. “Marigold woke up about an hour ago, herself. She got separated from us after the trebuchet went off, ended up wandering around in the snow for two days, herself.”  He sighed, shaking his head in dry amusement. “Meanwhile, Seeker and the entourage haven’t stopped arguing the whole damn time.”

Anders snorted. “Sounds like fun. Sorry I was sleeping and made you deal with it on your own,” he joked. “Now, is there anything to eat around here? I’m starving.”

As they headed back to the main campfire, the two of them managed to hear the tail end of a conversation -- or at least, the first few notes of a song. He exchanged bemused glances with Varric and changed directions, heading towards the source and pushing through the gathering crowd to see what was going on.

He recognized the song as they got closer, and they finally broke through the crowd -- who were all joining the song piece by piece -- to see Viruth watching with silent awe on her face, looking exhausted but somehow uplifted. 

He glanced a little awkwardly at Varric, who looked like he was trying incredibly hard not to laugh, and shuffled his feet, and when the chorus rose again, he pointedly looked away from the bemused dwarf before joining in the song himself.

_ The night is long, and the path is dark… Look to the sky, for one day soon...the dawn will come...” _

And eventually, it looked like it just might. The very next morning Viruth made them all pack up and follow her (and Solas, apparently), and the two elves led them to Skyhold. A massive fortress in the snow, in need of repair, but perfect for them. And as the days passed and they settled in, the huge grounds began to fill, more people coming by the day. It was becoming a pilgrimage, almost. 

Anders tried his best to stay out of everyone’s way, mostly aiding the apothecary and healers set up their quarters and tend to the wounded that still lingered, and occasionally checking on the mages to see if they needed anything. It had never been much of a secret, his presence, and though some still held a grudge -- snubbing him at best and throwing insults at worst -- many others simply accepted his desire to make things right, Fiona among them; she kept things from getting too bad for him among the mages, and for that he was grateful.

Eventually, news trickled down to all of Skyhold -- they were officially naming Viruth the Inquisitor. A ceremony and everything. 

He showed up with the rest to watch, smiling slightly to see the absolutely poleaxed expression on Viruth’s face as she stepped out onto the parapet with Cassandra. She seemed stunned, like she couldn’t believe this was happening -- and he couldn’t blame her. She was a Dalish elf, and now she was not only the so-called Herald of Andraste, but the leader of the entire Inquisition. Even he was having trouble wrapping his head around it.

But she took hold of the ceremonial sword she was offered and raised it aloft, a smile settling on her face, and Anders joined in the cheering and applause, raising his staff to acknowledge her wit a wide grin of his own. 

This felt…good, he realized. Like he was joining the Wardens all over again, or like he was back in Kirkwall, before things had gone sour. It had been a long time since he had felt like he belonged somewhere, like he had a place and a purpose. And this...this he knew he really believed in. It wasn’t just something he felt he had to.

And hell, they were going to stop Corypheus and save the world. All of them --  _ together. _


	4. Chapter 3: From the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One very stressful reunion (thanks Varric) and one very fun meeting with a Warden. Ah, never a dull moment with Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now you meet my beloved Hawke, Aderyn. She's a very Purple Rogue Hawke, and more uniquely a reckless, loud-mouthed nutter who's more at home with the boys than anything and will rip your throat out for touching her loved ones.
> 
> And I am endlessly happy with the sappy-ass reunion, because Hawke's line when you ask them about Anders literally destroyed me when I heard it and I needed to run with it. "I don't know if there ever really was an Anders," indeed. 
> 
> DON'T WORRY, THERE WILL BE FENRIS EVENTUALLY I PROMISE. REALLY.

**Ch. 3 -- From the Ashes**

 

It was a week or two after Viruth became Inquisitor that Varric approached Anders. He had been helping the apothecary catalogue the newest shipment of supplies, and looked up when the dwarf coughed. He immediately frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. “...Varric…” He began, not tearing his eyes away  from the dwarf’s uncharacteristically sheepish expression. “What did you do?”

“Well, y’see, Blondie,” he said cheerfully. “I...may or may not have decided to write an old friend of ours for help with Corypheus. And, well. She may or may not be here. Uh. Nowish.”

There was a dead silence, and Anders didn’t even notice the ceramic jar of ointment slipping out of nerveless fingers, too busy fighting down panic. He faintly noted that he had never used to have this many panic attacks, but...things really had changed a lot since Justice left. 

“No,” he managed hoarsely. “Oh, Varric, no. Please tell me you didn’t.”

Varric chuckled nervously. “Can’t tell you that, sorry. Or I could, but it would  be a lie, and I think for once we’re better off with the truth. All of us.” His look was pointed, and he gestured towards the battlements. “Come on, Blondie, you need to talk to her.” A pause, and an attempt at humor. “Just don’t tell Seeker, alright? She’ll wear my ribcage as a hat if she finds out I know where she was this whole time.”

“I might do that out of sheer spite,” Anders muttered, playing a litany of every swear he knew in his head. But nonetheless, he followed the dwarf up the stairs and towards where she was waiting.

Where  _ Hawke  _ was waiting.

Maker, he never thought he’d see her again. Aderyn Hawke...his Addie. The woman he’d fallen madly in love with, and watched choose the elf over him. He had been jealous, but who wouldn’t be? Such a reckless, loud, proud, wonderful woman...no one was good enough for her. Anders least of all. He’d known that, but still hoped. But no...it had never been to be. And then he’d tricked her, used her, betrayed her, and the hurt in her amber eyes as she looked at him amid the ashes of the Chantry had cut him worse than any knife. 

He had almost begged her to kill him, fallen to his knees and begged. It was better than seeing that face, the hurt, the disappointment. He’d known she carried a knife in her boot, had prayed to the Maker amid the ruins of His church that she’d use it. But the punishment had fit the crime; he had to live with what he’d done. And she hadn’t even told him to leave, at the end of it all. She’d smiled sadly and thanked him for helping. And he knew she wouldn’t tell him to go. So he ran, while everyone was staring at what was left of Meredith. He’d run until he’d lost himself along the way, and then nearly died and came back alone, whole, empty, and finally  _ understanding  _ it all.

And he didn’t know if he could face her hurt again, even now. Didn’t know that he wouldn’t run again, even though he’d sworn he wouldn’t. He’d never planned for  _ her _ . Didn’t know if he could say the things that needed saying.

He froze at the top of the steps, seeing her leaning against the low wall that ran around the battlements, back turned and her chin-length black hair blowing in the wind and making it messier still than it usually was. He could picture her trying to smooth it and giving up, like she had on so many outings, shrugging with a laugh and saying something about it never sitting still, anyway.

She didn’t look over her shoulder as they approached, only sighing, her horribly familiar voice pricking him right in the heart. “Oh, there you are, Varric!” She said brightly. “You say you’re bringing an old friend up to see me and then vanish for a half an hour! Maker, who is it, anyway? Who could possibly need convincing to come see my charming fa--”

She stopped talking as she turned around, and Anders knew he was crying, but he couldn’t help it; she looked exactly the same. That stupid red and grey mantle, the daggers on her back, the full lips, the amber eyes like his own honey-colored ones only darker, the shock in them feeling less like pinpricks and more like she’d buried that dagger in his heart after all.

“...Anders?” She managed, staking a step forward. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare at her, tears dripping slowly down his face. His hands trembled and he wanted to wipe his face, do something, but they remained at his sides, clenching and unclenching. He squeezed his eyes shut, opening them again, but nothing had changed. She was still staring at him, shock fading to something else, some of that old hurt still there in her eyes. “Anders?”

He managed a tiny smile beneath the tears. “Hawke,” he said weakly. Oh, Maker, strike him down where he stood, but don’t make him have to see that hurt and uncertainty and naked wariness in her gaze, like she wasn’t sure if he would explode or not.

“Is it-- are you…” Hawke tried, her own voice a little hoarse and shaky. “Anders, is it  _ you?” _ He stared blankly a moment, and then a soft sob tore out of him as he realized what she meant. “Are you-- are you  _ Anders?” _

He managed a nod; more a bob of his head than anything else. “He’s gone, Hawke,” he said weakly, the admission still hurting. He didn’t miss Justice anymore, but it still stung to be alone. “Justice is gone. He saved my life and he’s gone. It’s-- it’s just me.”

Hawke cast a look at Varric, searching for something. The dwarf nodded once, gesturing with a hand, and then she made a strangled noise in her throat, pressing a hand to her mouth. “It’s you,” she said. “It’s...it’s really  _ you _ .”

She made as if to go towards him but stopped herself, and her hand pressed to her mouth as if trying to stifle sobs. Maker, he almost never saw her lose it like this. Not since Leandra…

“Hawke…?” He asked.

She shook her head, hands moving and grabbing his shoulders roughly before he could react, and gripping tight enough to hurt; he was only wearing a simple tunic and coat, no robes, no pauldrons, and her hands had steel gauntlets on them. 

“Anders, I--” She began, and her voice was thick with emotion, her eyes intense. “I have to know something. I-I  _ need  _ to know. Kirkwall...everything that happened there...our friendship, your-- how you feel about me, everything-- was it you? How much was you?” Her voice faltered. “After we all left, I just-- I wasn’t sure-- I wasn’t sure if...Maker, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Did I ever really know you? Was it you? Was it ever you? Or was it him-- was it Justice?” Her voice cracked and she let out a sob, and she closed her eyes tightly, biting her lip. 

“Is he real?” She asked at last. “Is-- is Anders  _ real?” _

Oh.

He couldn’t speak for several long moments as she unwound in front of him, and then he started speaking, words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. He didn’t know what he was saying, only knew he was saying more than he’d ever said to any of the Kirkwall group, more than he’d told Varric since reuniting.

“Oh, Maker-- oh, Hawke-- Aderyn-- Addie--” He tried. “I-I’m-- oh, Maker. It was. It was. I am. I’m real. I’m real, oh Andraste’s-- oh I can’t even think of a proper swear right now-- I’m real, Hawke. I was real, I _ am _ real. I never meant-- I’m too nice, I-- I thought he was my friend, I thought I could help him, and I thought I was strong enough and I was an idiot, I was an idiot and I wasn’t strong enough, and he  _ ruined  _ me-- I didn’t realize until he was gone, Hawke, I didn’t realize what he did because I was too busy working myself to death for a cause I had only half-believed in until he convinced me to go all the way, a-and I just-- I’m  _ real _ . The man you-- the man you met that morning in the clinic, the one who had the cat with the silly name, the Warden, the-- the one that made stupid jokes and laughed too much and tried to cheer everyone up and sucked at Grace-faces and-- and--” He choked. “And the one that loves you, Hawke, that’s me. That’s Anders, and I’m real.”

He broke down then, and he was aware that it was only Hawke’s arms that were keeping him upright, but he couldn’t support himself for the strength of the sobs shaking his still thin, unhealthy body.

“I’m real. I love you and I’m real,” he whispered hoarsely. “If it’s not-- if you don’t-- it’s okay. I just-- I’m sorry, Hawke, I’m _so_ _sorry_. I’m alone in here, and it hurts and it’s empty and everything’s too loud and the Fade is closer, but for the first time in seven years I can think and I can think clearly and I’m trying to be the man I was, but I’m not him, either, but no matter what I am, what I made of what’s left of me, I’m Anders, I swear to the Maker, and I’m so fucking sorry it hurts.”

He trailed off, scrubbing at his face, shaking until she pulled him into a tight embrace, tucking his head into her shoulder. “Oh,  _ Anders _ ,” she whispered. “You’ve been forgiven for ages.” He let out another sob at that, and she simply stroked her fingers through his hair, longer than it had been when he’d joined the Inquisition but still too short for a proper ponytail. “You’re  _ you _ ,” she continued, her voice warm enough to make his chest hurt. “You’re the you I first met, the one we all cared about, the one we missed so much when he disappeared inch by inch. You’re the you I fell in love with, and thank the fucking Maker you’re finally  _ home _ .” 

“Wh--” He pulled slightly away to stare at her, his mind stuck on five little words that felt like she’d just dropped live grenades in his chest, that felt too unreal to be what he’d heard. “Hawke--?”

She smiled slightly, face still red and streaked with tears, but happy. “I love you,” she told him bluntly. “You and Fenris both.” She stroked some of his own tears off his face with a thumb. “I never meant to choose either of you, you know. I may be a selfish bitch, but I wanted both. I wanted you both with me, forever.” He opened his mouth and she pressed a finger to it. “I know what I said, and it’s still true-- or it was, then. You did go somewhere I couldn’t follow.” Her voice breaks slightly. “And I couldn’t face someone else I loved going down that road, the one I couldn’t go with them on. Dad, Carver, Mom...I couldn’t do it again, not with you. But I-- I waited.” She said, her voice suddenly strong again. “I hoped and prayed and believed in you, that you’d come back to me. That you’d come home. And you _ did _ .” 

She beamed at him, that smile that was bright as the sun. “You came back. And I waited. And now you’re home. I knew you would.”

“But Fenris--” He tried. Maker, the elf would kill him. The elf would bloody kill him. 

Hawke just smiled. “He’s aware. I told him ages ago, when we left Kirkwall. Made it clear in no uncertain terms he wasn’t to touch you if the intent wasn’t friendly, and that I loved him as much as I loved you, and that I wouldn’t let you touch him either.” She laughed quietly. “He wasn’t happy, but that’s obvious. I think he’s come to accept it, though. He made it clear to me that he’s considering my ultimatum null and void if you hurt me.”

“He’ll rip my heart out, right?” Anders asked almost fondly. “Or has he gotten original since I’ve been away and come up with something new? My spine, maybe? Or a lung? Ooh, or a kidney. That would be creative..”

Hawke blinked, and then burst into laughter, her head falling back as she roared with it despite tears forming in her eyes again. Anders couldn’t help but join her, and then they were on the ground, leaning on each other and howling with laughter amid sobs, a tangle of arms hugging and clinging like neither wanted to let go.

Eventually she pulled away, rubbing her eyes and snickering slightly. “Okay, okay,” she managed. “Business. Your new friends and I, we’re heading out to Crestwood tomorrow. Stroud -- that one Warden we met in Kirkwall once -- he’s camped out there. He’s been investigating something to do with the Wardens, and I have a feeling it’s important. Come with us?”

“Hm,” Anders said, mock thoughtfully, a smile betraying him. “Go tramping around a rainy, smelly, mountainous helhole, and nasty dark caverns to find a Warden on the run from more Wardens who are in all likelihood being controlled by Corypheus again?” He tapped his chin with a finger. “You really do know how to take a guy out on a date, Hawke. Of course I’m in.”

                                                                                          -------------------

“I regret this more and more every second,” Anders complained, and Hawke laughed over her shoulder. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said cheerily. “It’s good to be squelching around nasty wet caves with you and Varric again. All we need is Fenris grumping about muddy feet, and it’s just like old times!”

Anders groaned even as Varric snickered. “Oh, yes. That would make this  _ perfect _ . Add into the current fun a grouchy elf snapping at me every two minutes about being a horrible dirty mage,” he said sarcastically. “Fun times and nostalgia everywhere!”

So part of his grouchiness was possibly due to the stark horror in his gut that hit him as soon as they crossed into Orlais and the Calling slammed him right in the back of the head, faint and false (he recognized it from Vinmark) but still there, crooning seductively. He was reasonably sure it wouldn’t make him lose it this time, but it still scared the fuck out of him. 

It was a reminder of his lifespan, that would always be much shorter than most, and that would end in darkness and darkspawn and this blasted Call in the back of his head.

“Fenris?” Came a voice, and he gratefully turned to Solas, who was doing a much better job about being stoic when it came to nasty things he was stepping in. “An odd name for an elf. Most do not name their children anything to do with wolves-- it invites Fen’Harel’s curse, they say.” His voice was oddly bemused, like he knew something they didn’t, but Anders was used to weird mysterious assholes, so he let it be. “If I could inquire--?”

Hawke sighed. “He’s Tevinter, or was,” she explained, and the mage made a soft noise of understanding. “He’s my lover. We’ve split up for a time, because he has this annoying habit of putting himself in between me and things that are trying to kill me, and...well, with what’s going on, I don’t want him to-- I don’t want to risk him.”

“And yet I’m fair game,” Anders joked. “Should I be jealous?”

Hawke snorted.  _ “You _ have some semblance of self-preservation, and also fight best at long range, so you’re not as much of a liability when it comes to saving my ass,” she retorted. “Besides, you’re a healer. If you throw yourself in front of a blade, I’m reasonably sure you can patch it up.”

“I feel like I was just insulted,” Anders said, but he was grinning. He had missed this so much.

Viruth giggled, turning back to watch them from the head of the group. “Well, I think Hawke must be very lucky, to have two people so willing to protect her. Let’s hope Fenris isn’t jealous when he finds out Anders came with us, hmm?” She teased, and Anders spluttered even as Hawke laughed. “In any case, we’re here,” she added, stopping in front of an old wooden wall built haphazardly into the cavern in front of them, a door in the middle of it.

She pushed the door open and headed through, the others behind her. As she moved around the rock formation in the center, a shift of boot leather caught her attention. She turned to face a large, mustached man in Warden colors, drawing his blade on her with a look of suspicion.

“Stroud, wait,” Hawke said quickly, stepping in between them. “It’s just me. I brought the Inquisitor.”

He blinked, and then sheathed his blade, nodding. “Inquisitor,” he said, a bit stiffly. “My name is Stroud, as she said, and I am at your service.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Viruth said, smiling. “Thank you. I know the Wardens have been having troubles of their own, from what I’ve been told. Do they-- do they have to do with Corypheus?

Stroud sighed. “I wish it were not so, but…” He nodded. “It did not seem so at first, as Corypheus was dead and Weisshaupt was happy to put it to rest. But...Archdemons have been known to come back from wounds that seemed fatal, and so I began my investigations. Everything was fine, at first, but...a short time ago, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

“What?!” Hawke yelped, looking around at the group and fixing her gaze on Anders for a moment. “The Calling?” She turned to stare at Stroud, her face shifting to a firm ‘very annoyed’. “I recall that being very bad,” she muttered. “And I  _ also  _ don’t recall you mentioning it earlier.”

The man sighed. “It was a Grey Warden matter,” he said quietly. “I was sworn to secrecy.”

“Um…” Viruth raised a hand, looking confused. “What’s the Calling?” She asked. “Some kind of...Warden ritual?”

Anders snorted. “I wish,” he said, answering for Stroud, who was staring at him now. “It’s...it’s a sign that the Blight, the taint all Wardens carry, is about to take you. First is nightmares, and then whispers in your head that get louder the more you ignore it.” He lets out a bark of laughter. “When that happens, all good little Wardens say their farewells, finish up their business, fuck their lover one last time, and trot merrily down to the Deep Roads to die horribly while fighting darkspawn.” He grins, and there’s no humor in it. “I’m not looking forward to the real thing.”

Suddenly, Viruth looked incredibly concerned. “So wait-- every Warden in Orlais is hearing it? And-- and they think they’re all going to die?”

“Yes,” Stroud replied. “If the Wardens fall, who will stand against the next Blight? I fear it is exactly what Corypheus wants.”

Hawke sighed, absently reaching for Anders’ hand. “Considering the odds are good that they’ll probably do something stupid and desperate? Yeah, I think he’s gonna be pretty enthusiastic about it.”

“Stroud, you said all Wardens in Orlais are hearing it,” Viruth said, biting a nail through her glove. “Does-- does that include you? And Anders, what about you?”

Anders sighed, squeezing Hawke’s hand. “Yes,” he admitted, looking down at his boots. “I hear it. I’ve been hearing it since we crossed into Orlais. It’s weaker than I remember from last time I met Corypheus, and I’m pretty sure I can ignore it, but-- it’s there. I hear it.”

“Yes,” Stroud agreed. “It’s like a wolf, prowling at the door. Music you can’t get out of your head,” he explained quietly. “The creature that creates it has never known the love of the Maker, but...sometimes I almost understand it.” He looked disquieted, almost disturbed at his own thoughts.

Viruth nodded slowly, and swallowed. “So basically...the Wardens think they’re dying, and now they aren’t thinking clearly,” she said, and a wry, anxious smile twisted her lips. “That’s going to end well.”

“Aye,” Stroud said, sighing. “The Wardens are the only ones who can stop the Blights. Without us…” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual that prevent any further Blights before we all perished. When I spoke out against the idea, my own comrades turned on me.” He sighed stiffly, turning to a table nearby and tapping a spot on the map, sliding a wooden piece over it. “They are gathering here, in the western approach. Some sort of tower, I believe.”

He looked up. “Hawke, Inquisitor. Meet me there, if you will.”

He disappeared into the caverns again, leaving the others to look at each other.

“ _ Balls _ ,” Anders said, voicing most of their thoughts. “Crazed Wardens, a fake Calling, and now let’s just add dangerous blood magic rituals to the mix! Just like bloody Kirkwall, eh?”

Varric rolled his eyes. “How do we keep ending  _ up  _ in this shit?” He demanded good-naturedly. “I need to stop hanging around you, Hawke. I want to die old and gray on my bed surrounded by adoring women and lots of hard-earned money, thanks.”

“Aw, no, Varric,” Hawke teased, making teasing puppy eyes at him. “I’d miss you too much. I need my trusty dwarf! And besides, you know you love me. I’m  _ irresistible _ .”

Anders laughed. “It’s the truth, don’t deny it, Varric,” he said with a wry grin. “Maker help me, but I’d follow this madwoman into the Deep Roads or the Fade as many times as she asked. Of course, I’d complain bitterly the whole time, but I’d go anyway. We all would.”

“Oh, Anders, you say the sweetest things,” Hawke said fondly, kissing his cheek. Varric laughed as Anders went completely red, sputtering in embarrassment.

Viruth giggled, shaking her head. “I hope I inspire such loyalty,” she said wistfully, and shook her head when Varric opened his mouth. “Anyway, we need to report back to Skyhold, and then figure out a plan for the approach.” She paused, and then grinned. “Besides, I want to get out of this weather. I feel like even my smallclothes are soaked through. I’d like to be dry sometime this decade.”

They all laughed -- and to Anders’ surprise, even Solas spared a soft chuckle -- and headed back out of the caves, back to Skyhold.

Things would not be easy, Anders reflected, but somehow, with Hawke at their side for a while -- with Hawke  _ and  _ the Inquisitor -- it felt like things would be alright in the end. The two women seemed to have that effect. And he was glad to be with them.


	5. Chapter 4: Here Lies the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ritual towers and Warden fortresses and the Fade, oh my! Wherein Anders decides Fenris is right -- Tevinter really, really sucks ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the fun times with Hawke party! I'm sorry Stroud, I could never, not ever, leave Hawke there, because I have heard Gideon Emery's voice break down in tears (FFXIV whoops) and I can't bring myself to do that to Fenris. Or hell, Varric! Or in this fic, ANDERS. Do you want to see Anders break? I sure don't! :'D
> 
> I had a lot of fun involving anders in some of these conversations, because hawke and varric make a lot of comments that strike me as very much applicable to anders, and i'm really glad i can have him respond to them. (also LMFAO ANDERS + NIGHTMARE = YES) (fun fact in draft 1 the little fears were himself all vengeance'd out)
> 
> In other news, I completely managed to sweep Solavellan under the rug accidentally, so here have some references to it.
> 
> Also after this chapter is the vignette I'm sure at least some of you are waiting for, because Varric does, after all, write some letters... (and I make some references...)
> 
> PS: Merry Christmas!

**Ch. 4 - Here Lies the Abyss**

 

“I’m going to melt,” Anders moaned. “I’m melting. I’m going to turn into a puddle, and then you have to deal with the melty mage goo I’ll leave behind. Whose bright idea was it to make this coat so heavy? Can I pretty please set them on fire?”

Cassandra groaned, wiping some sweat off her own face. “Anders? Shut up,” she snapped. “We are here for a reason, and if you don’t like it, you can go back to camp.”

“No! No, I’m okay. I’ll shut up,” he muttered, to a chorus of weak laughter. The group was trudging to the western approach to meet Stroud and Hawke, who’d gone ahead. It was a hot, desolate desert, and they were all sweating profusely -- though Anders was the only one among them complaining so loudly. It felt nice to complain though, like old times, and Varric was grinning despite the sweat pouring down his face.

He glanced around at the company -- Viruth, of course, and Cassandra and Varric. And Solas, who seemed to be going everywhere with the Inquisitor lately. Anyone else might not have caught on to why, but Anders knew all too well the smitten look on the Dalish girl’s face whenever she glanced at the other elf. It was sweet.

Eventually, his thoughts trailed off as they got to the tower, Viruth walking ahead to meet up with Hawke and Stroud at the gates. Hawke beamed at the group when they got there, but it quickly faded, and she sighed.

“We’re too late,” Stroud said. “They’ve already started the ritual.”

Hawke made a face, and glanced at Anders and Varric. “Blood magic,” she said, distaste in her voice. “You can smell it. Or, well-- see the corpses. Either way.”

They hurried through the gate and across the bridge, stopping at the courtyard as a grisly scene unfolded in front of them -- a man in robes watching with sick satisfaction as a Warden killed another, one quick slash across the throat...and the dead man’s blood used to bind a demon to the survivor, the Warden’s eyes flickering red.

The mage looked up, smiling, and Anders recognized the smile immediately. The smug, slimy smile he’d come to assume was standard issue for Tevinter magisters, the one that made you feel dirty just looking at it. He bowed extravagantly, smile never faltering. “Ah, Inquisitor,” he said. “A pleasure. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service.”

“You are no Warden,” Stroud snarled, stepping forward menacingly.

Erimond made a face. “Ah, yes, the one that got away,” he said lightly. “So you found the Inquisitor and came to me. Shall we see how that goes?”

“You, um...seem to have already started without me,” Viruth noted, looking around at the bodies. Erimond just chuckled.

“Ah, yes, that,” he said with amusement. “We just needed his blood.” There was a pause, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh, were you hoping to garner some sympathy from these men?” He asked. “That won’t work, I’m afraid. Wardens-- hands up.” The living Wardens, standing among demons almost stiffly, eyes blank, raised their hands in the air almost mechanically. “Hands down,” the magister continued, and they lowered them with the same synchronicity.

The group looked horrified. “They’re like...you made them slaves,” Anders said softly, eyes wide. “Corypheus made them _slaves_.”

“Mm, yes,” Erimond laughed. “They did this to themselves, really. The Calling had them so scared out of their minds, they simply looked everywhere for help.”

“Even Tevinter,” Anders muttered. Really, he was starting to understand why Fenris hated the place so much-- and agree with him, for that matter. He had to wonder, idly, how flammable Minrathous was.

“Of course,” Erimond said with a chuckle. “And since my master put the Calling into their silly heads in the first place, we Venatori were prepared. I came to Clarel full of sympathy, and we came up with an idea -- raise a demon army, storm the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

Viruth rolled her eyes. “Oh, is that all? I was wondering when the demon army was going to show up,” she said, sounding very annoyed.

“Oh-- you...you know about it,” Erimond said, sounding put out and making Hawke snort with laughter. “Well, here you are, then. In any case, the binding ritual I taught their mages has one tiny little side effect -- it makes them my master’s slaves, as you so aptly put it, mage.” He grinned. “This was just a test-- once the rest of the Wardens perform it, we’ll have our army...and then they’ll conquer Thedas.”

Viruth raised an eyebrow, and Anders continued to be proud of her surprising attitude. “Do you really expect us to take us out with a handful of demons and a single rift?” She asked. “You know what we -- I -- did to the Breach.”

“Oh, yes,” Erimond said casually, lifting a hand. “And I know what our master did to you at Haven.” His hand flared red and Viruth screamed, falling to her knees and clutching at her wrist as her mark burst into crackling light, filling Anders’ head with white noise. Solas, he was surprised to see, was the one who started forward, his eyes chips of ice. Or maybe he wasn’t surprised, given how Viruth looked at him.

“You think you can handle that-- you and your Anchor, that lets you pass safely through the Veil,” Ermind said smugly, grinning like a snake. “You stole that from my master, and he has had to find other ways to access the Fade. When I bring him your head, he will be--”

He stopped, eyes widening, as Viruth levered herself back to his feet, glaring up at him. Her free hand held onto Solas’ arm for support, while the one that held the Anchor shot out before her, snapping the rift shut with a single twist of her wrist and sending the magister sprawling backwards.

He leaped to his feet, sputtering and swearing. “You-- kill them!” He snarled, turning and running as the controlled Warden and their demons turned to look at the group as one.

“Oh, hell,” Varric said cheerily.

The fight wasn’t a difficult one, thankfully, with two mages, two rogues (and Varric with Bianca), and two warriors, and soon the last of the demons were disappearing into glimmering light. Anders sighed, leaning on his staff as the others caught their breaths.

“Well, that went well,” Hawke joked as she wiped off her daggers and resheathed them.

Stroud just sighed, crossing his arms. “We were right. The Warden mages are being controlled by Corypheus,” he said solemnly.

“And the warriors?” Hawke asked, before pausing, her face falling. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, right. I...suppose it isn’t blood magic unless people die, right...?”

Viruth sighed, leaning against a wall and looking exhausted. “Blood magic, demon summoning...who thinks this is a good idea?”

“The scared and the stupid,” Hawke said, sighing and running a hand through her hair.

Stroud frowned. “The Wardens were wrong, yes, but they had their reasons,” he defended, and Anders bristled. Before he could catch himself, his mouth opened, and he snapped out a reply.

“Oh, yes, of course-- everyone has their reasons to make their bad decisions seem justified,” he said sharply, his jaw clenching. “But no matter the reasons, it doesn’t make a difference in the end. You’re always left alone with what you’ve done.”

There was a long silence, Hawke reaching out to put her hand on Anders’ shoulder, and then Stroud coughed. “I...believe I know where they fled to,” he said slowly. “There is an abandoned Warden fortress that way. Adamant.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Viruth said. “It’s...not a good idea to summon a demon army out in public, I suppose.

Hawke laughed. “Stroud and I will scout the place out, make sure the Wardens are there. We’ll meet you back at Skyhold.” Viruth nodded, and Stroud headed back down the bridge. Hawke paused, turning to look at Anders and kissing him lightly on the cheek. He let her, letting his head drop to her shoulder for a moment, before she broke contact and departed with a final reassuring squeeze of his arm.

“Come on then,” Cassandra said, once the two had left. “Let us meet them at Skyhold, as they said, and plan our assault on Adamant.”

                                                                                 -----------------------

And so the assault began.

The plan, as laid out in the war room, was to lay siege to the fortress, the Inquisition choking off the demon  forces while Viruth and her team -- Anders, Varric, Solas, and Iron Bull, as well as Hawke and Stroud -- headed for Warden-Commander Clarel.

Anders, for his part, was honestly terrified. He’d been at Vigil’s Keep, at the siege of Amaranthine, and that was one thing -- but then he’d been fighting alongside Wardens, not _against_ them. And this was the biggest bloody fight he’d ever been in. This wasn’t like Amaranthine, the Qunari invasion, the chaos after the Chantry went up. This was _war_. Real, outright war. And it scared the shit out of him. The demons, the Calling, the rifts...it was all screaming through his head like a discordant orchestra, and he had to wonder how any other mage was putting up with it even without his increased sensitivity.

Thankfully, he’d been in worse shape, and he’d learned ages ago how to put up with the sound of the Calling -- and like hell he was going to let Hawke down. He refused to do that. No more running away, no more being scared. He was going to _fight_.

The group fought their way through the baileys, the two mages slinging ice and fire and lighting across the battlefield while Iron Bull and Stroud cleared a path for the rogues to slip across and take down any stragglers.

After heading through the battlements to clear out siege points for the Inquisition soldiers, they ran back down through the stronghold and courtyards to find Clarel. Eventually, after several long, stressful minutes, they did -- on a balcony overlooking one of the courtyards with Erimond. She looked solemn, drawn, almost pained as she sliced the throat of a warrior and he collapsed to the ground bonelessly.

Anders couldn’t suppress a shudder. Even though he’d run away from the Wardens years ago, there was never...you never stopped _being_ one. And to see his comrades, his fellow Wardens, the first place he’d felt at home and free and part of something...to seem them doing this, it hurt. He was just so damned glad none of his friends were here. If he’d seen Nate, or Oghren, or Sigrun...or hell, if Velanna had finally decided to show up again… Or the Commander, _his_ commander. If she had been here, or any of them...he didn’t know that he’d be able to hold it together. Even as it is, it hurt to watch.

They made to move as Clarel saw them, commanded the Wardens to attack, but Viruth held up a hand to stop them, stepping forward to speak to the Commander.

“Don’t do this, Clarel!” Viruth called out. “You’re only doing exactly what Erimond wants!”

Erimond scoffed. “And what’s that?” He countered. “Stopping the Blights, saving the world? This is what everyone would want!”

Clarel glanced back at the magister, and then again at Viruth and her companions. “I am doing my duty!” She yelled. “We sacrifice our lives to protect the world, doing our duty, and no one will remember us!”

“And then you will lose yourselves to Corypheus!” Stroud snapped. Clarel paled suddenly, looking startled.

“Corypheus--?” She asked. “But...he’s dead.”

Erimond growled, and his hand glimmered crimson. “Do not listen to them,” he purred, and Anders could smell the blood magic. “They will say anything to shake your confidence.”

“I...” Clarel murmured, rubbing her forehead -- the spell taking effect. “Bring it forth!”

The rift in the courtyard rippled and crackled as the mages poured magic into it, and Anders grimaced, shaking his head. Hawke stepped forward to stand next to Viruth, eyes blazing. “Clarel, stop!” She cried. “I have seen the cost of blood magic, and it is _never_ worth it!”

Leandra, Marethari, Orsino...yes, Anders thought -- those from Kirkwall knew the cost of blood magic better than a lot of people.

“Please,” Stroud added, stepping forward himself and looking around at the Wardens in the courtyard. “I trained half of you myself. Do not make me kill you to stop this.”

Erimond just laughed. “Be ready, Clarel. This one is truly worthy of your strength.”

Viruth shook her head desperately, licking her lips and trying one last time to stop them. “Please!” She cried. “I have no quarrel with the Wardens! I have spared those when I can do so! You must have noticed-- this is not right! Some of you have seen it!”

Murmurs began among the ranks as some of the Wardens began to look at each other, began to doubt. Hawke stepped forward, pressing the point. “You’re being used!” She said. “Can’t you see? I know you’re afraid, but this is not the answer!”

“I am proud of you for your bravery,” Stroud added. “But this is not the way! Please, do not do this!”

Clarel looked at the three of them, the others in the group, and then back to Erimond, who growled in frustration as his spell wavered. “Perhaps...we should test their claims,” the Commander ventured cautiously, and the magister narrowed his eyes at her.

“No,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I need a better ally.” He stepped back, banging his staff hard against the stones, making Anders wince. “Inquisitor!” He cried. “I knew you would come, and my master gave me this to deal with you!”

There was a roar, and they all looked to the sky and grabbed their weapons as the false archdemon swooped across the courtyard, breathing fire. It circled above them a few times, landing on a battlement above even as Clarel turned on Erimond, blasting him in the back as she spun to attack the dragon. It roared again, and Erimond bolted. “Help the Inquisitor!” Clarel cried, and tore after the magister.

The courtyard exploded into action, magic and the clash of steel filling the air as the Wardens leaped into battle alongside Viruth and her companions while the rift spit demons out and the controlled Wardens fought just as fiercely.

Cutting a path through the enemies, they chased after Clarel and Erimond, dodging the flames of the dragon that still circled overhead, roaring. The chase came to a halt at a dead end -- a bridge, cut off over a sheer cliff face.

“You!” Clarel snarled, advancing steadily on Erimond. “You have destroyed the Wardens!” The magister just laughed, even as she knocked him to the ground with magic.

“You...you did that yourself, you stupid bitch,” he laughed, and she let out a furious cry, blasting him again and sending him skidding across the bridge. He gasped, coughing, and struggled to sit up. “You...you could have served a new god…”

Clarel’s eyes were ablaze with fury. “I will never serve the Blight!” She snapped, raising her staff. Before she could cast a spell, the dragon swooped past, catching her up in its jaws before anyone could react. It landed on a battlement, shaking the woman a few times before tossing her mangled body onto the bridge before them before leaping off its perch and slamming to the ground over her still form, staring down Viruth and her companions. Anders let out a soft whimper, shifting his grip on his staff. Oh. Oh, Maker. It wasn’t a real archdemon, he could feel that much, but-- but it looked like the tales his commander had told them, and he was _scared_.

“In war, victory,” came a weak voice, and he blinked, eyes shifting to see Clarel struggling to move. “In peace, vigilance…”

Anders recited the last words with her, as she lifted her hand one last time, magic crackling faintly in it. “In death... _sacrifice_.”

The magic was let loose and the false archdemon roared one final time, its body jerking and writhing as it fell across the bridge, smashing it to pieces even as those on it tried to outrun the destruction.

They weren’t quick enough, though, and Anders’ last coherent thought as he fell was that this was a shitty way to die -- but at least Hawke was with him.

                                                                               ---------------------

He woke up slowly and painfully, shaking his head and then yelping, scrabbling for purchase on the suddenly unreal surface he stood -- was he standing? -- on. “What-- what the hell?” He demanded, confused.

“Where are we?!” Stroud asked, eyes comically wide as he realized he seemed to be standing on a wall.

Hawke, from the diagonal outcropping she seemed to be standing on, let out a nervous laugh. “If this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology,” she joked weakly. “Sure doesn’t look like Andraste’s bosom.”

“We are in the Fade,” Solas said, sounding awed, and Anders blanched. “The-- Viruth must have opened a rift as we fell.” He looked around, almost looking like a child. “I never thought I would have the chance to be here physically… Look, there is the Black City, close enough to touch.”

Viruth managed a small smile, walking up to him and touching his arm. “I can tell you’re very excited about this, Solas,” she teased affectionately. “So any advice you might have about what’s going on would be wonderful.”

“I...have never seen this part of the Fade before,” he admitted, looking around. “What manner of spirit is in control of this area?”

Hawke looked around as well, jumping from her awkward perch to the ground. “It doesn’t look like the Fade I remember, either,” she said. “Maybe because we’re here physically?”

Anders blinked, before remembering the incident with Feynriel -- but he’d been Justice in the Fade, then, and...now he wasn’t. Odd. “Hey...Viruth,” he said suddenly, looking over at her. “You...they said you walked out of the Fade at Haven, didn’t you? Is this what it was like?”

Viruth shook her head. “I...I don’t know,” she admitted. “I still can’t remember what happened.”

“Oh,” Anders said, laughing awkwardly. “Well, that’s...I hope we’re safe.”

He glanced over at the others, who all seemed just as perturbed as he was. Stroud looked perturbed, Varric looked resigned, but still mildly freaked out, and Iron Bull was very clearly muttering Qunari swears under his breath and holding his axe tightly.

Hawke sighed. “Probably not,” she said dryly. “That huge demon was right on the other side of the rift in the courtyard, and who knows if there are more where that came from.”

“Do you think we can get back through that one?” Stroud asked.

Viruth looked thoughtful. “Well...it’s better than staying here for demons to find us, right?” She pointed towards a portal in the distance, lighting up the sky. “It’s there. Let’s go.”

There was an awkward chuckle from the group, and they started walking.

They started walking, Hawke falling back to walk beside Anders and Viruth walking beside Solas; the warriors took point, and Varric stayed in the back with the other two from Kirkwall. Aside from that, they all clustered together, eyes darting about nervously.

They headed down a long, winding path and up a steep staircase, and slowly came to a halt as a woman came into view -- an older woman, wearing robes of the Chantry. Their eyes all widened, and Anders’ jaw dropped.

“Is...is that--” The old woman just smiled, inclining her head.

“Greetings, Inquisitor,” she said kindly. “And you, Champion.”

“Divine Justinia?” Viruth asked, incredulous. “I don’t-- I saw, at Haven-- how are you here?”

Stroud shook his head. “She cannot be,” he said. “I fear we face a spirit...or a demon.”

Justinia sighed softly. “You question my survival, and yet here you stand in the Fade, yourselves,” she said, sounding almost sad. “And to prove my existence either way would take time we do not have.”

“How hard can it be to answer one question?” Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow, though she seemed just as stunned as the others. “I’m human, and you are…?”

Justinia smiled slightly. “Here to help you,” she told them, looking at Viruth. “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”

“No, I don’t,” Viruth said, shaking her head.

Justinia nodded, the faint smile never leaving her face. “The memories you have lost were taken by the demon that serves Corypheus,” she explained. “He is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. He feeds on fear and terror, and grows fat upon it. The false calling that terrified the Wardens into making grave mistakes? Its work.”

“I would gladly end its life and avenge my brethren,” Stroud growled.

“You will have your chance, brave Warden,” Justinia told him kindly. “This place of darkness is its lair.”

Anders blinked, exchanging looks with Varric. “The demon that Erimond was trying to bring through,” he said.

“Yes,” Justinia told them.

Varric sighed resignedly. “This...this is its lair.”

“Yes,” Justinia repeated, her mouth twitching with amusement.

“Well, _shit_ ,” came a chorus from the three from Kirkwall.

Justinia chuckled indulgently, but grew serious. “The Nightmare took a piece of you when you last entered the Fade. You must recover it before you do anything else,” she told Viruth. She gestured out at the distance of the area around them. “That way,” she said.

They headed in that direction, killing demons on their way towards a faintly pulsing barrier -- and then Viruth gasped, collapsing to the ground; Solas knelt beside her almost immediately, and then there was a flash. And everyone saw what she saw.

_\--A room. Wardens. Justinia. “Bring forth the sacrifice.” An orb, the Anchor. The doors crashing open. “What’s going on here?!” Justinia, knocking the orb out of his hand. Viruth grabbing it. Glowing, screaming--_

The vision ended abruptly, and they all stumbled back slightly at the suddenness, looking around at each other before all eyes settled on Viruth, who looked a little shaken.

Stroud frowned. “So the mark wasn’t given to you by Andraste, but...the orb Corypheus was using,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Justinia said, appearing beside them and causing Anders and Varric to jump, Iron Bull swearing loudly. “Corypheus was planning to use the orb to gain the Anchor, and use it to cross the Veil and throw open the doors of the Black City -- not for the Old Gods, but for himself,” she said. “When you disrupted the ritual, the orb gave you the Anchor instead.”

Viruth sighed, standing and leaning slightly on Solas for support as she gathered herself. “I...had a feeling that was the case,” she admitted. “I never thought it was Andraste that gave me this, but…” Anders had a feeling he knew what she was thinking. It had been what everyone else had thought; Leliana, Cassandra, the entire Inquisition. And Viruth was a Dalish elf. Her supposed tie to Andraste was probably the only thing that kept her from being just another knife-ear, and a heretical one at that, to them.

“And now you are certain,” Justinia told her, but there was a kindness in her voice that said she, too, understood Viruth’s uncertainty. “You cannot leave the lair of the Nightmare until you have taken back what you have lost. You have regained some of it, but how it knows you are here. I will open the path ahead.”

At that, she faded, and so did the barrier. After a moment Viruth straightened, and they all looked at each other.

“So,” Anders began slowly. “Did anyone else notice the Wardens that were holding Justinia?” He asked. “Because...you know, that might mean--”

Stroud grunted. “I noticed,” he said, sounding almost defensive. “But I assume they were controlled by Corypheus, as the others were. Let us wait until we are out of the Fade to discuss this, yes?”

He strode off, and Hawke sighed, glaring after him. “Oh, I intend to,” she muttered. Anders almost felt sorry for the man; Hawke’s annoyance was a force to be reckoned with. He was glad it wasn’t him.

They continued along the path, nearly tripping over themselves when a voice echoed around them, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Anders turned pale, and he glanced at Solas, whose lips had thinned. They knew what it was; the demon. The Nightmare.

“Ah, we have a visitor,” the voice crooned. “Some foolish little girl, coming to steal the fear I so kindly lifted from her shoulders. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten.” It laughed. “You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears...is _me_.”

It laughed again, and Anders shuddered. Around him, Varric was clutching Bianca tight enough to make his knuckles white, Bull looked torn between rage and terror, Stroud’s face was blank and Hawke gripped her daggers tightly, her own face pale. Solas seemed unreadable, and Viruth looked frightened, but determined, as she led them onwards.

“But you are a guest here in my home,” the demon continued. “So by all means, let me return what you have forgotten."

They tried their best to ignore the words, pressing onwards through the Fade and the demons that crowded them. Up paths, around corners, down hills...it was almost like the place was leading them somewhere, linear as it was. And Anders didn’t want to know what lay at the end of the road.

They turned a corner, and Anders let out a strangled cry even as the others reacted as well -- there were things, creatures... _Children_. The mutant darkspawn screeched as they saw the group, unfolding their spindly legs and pincers from their grublike bodies, humanoid faces splitting open to reveal too many teeth, dripping with tainted saliva. He nearly dropped his staff as a wave of sheer terror washed over him, flashbacks to Amaranthine, to Kal’Hirol, to the Deep Roads, to the Mother-- he didn’t realize things had started moving until Hawke slapped his shoulder.

“Anders!” She cried, leaping into the fray, and Anders let out another noise, shaking his head before running after her, his magic lighting his staff already. He wanted to tell her -- tell them all -- to stop, stop, they’re darkspawn, don’t let them bite you, Stroud why aren’t you saying anything...but his voice wouldn’t work, and all he could do was try to set them all ablaze before they got close.

After the horde of them was destroyed, Iron Bull slammed his greataxe into the ground, looking shaken. “What in the hell were those?” He demanded, and Anders tried to answer -- but Solas beat him to it.

“Little fears,” the elf explained. “Servants of the Nightmare.”

Hawke made a disgusted face. “Great,” she said sarcastically. “Did they have to look like spiders?”

“...Spiders?” Anders finally managed. “They weren’t spiders...”

Hawke looked puzzled until Solas answered again. “They take on different appearances for everyone, depending on what unnerves us most,” he explained, and Anders relaxed slightly. So they weren’t really Children. That was...oh, thank the Maker. He was still shaken himself, breathing heavily and trying to pull himself together, but at least they weren’t really darkspawn. That he could manage.

“Great,” Bull muttered. “That makes me feel _so_ much better.” Anders managed a weak laugh at that, and nodded in agreement, patting the Qunari on the arm.

They turned another corner, up another flight of steps, around a bend, and down the path, and then the Nightmare started talking again.

“Mmm,” it said. “Perhaps _I_ should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition.” It laughed.

When it spoke again, Vruth made a soft noise of surprise as the elvish tongue dripped from its booming voice. “Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”

Viruth looked startled, mouthing the words to herself as if trying to understand them, but Solas just stood tall, replying in the same tongue with no hint of fear. “Banal nadas,” he said firmly, and put his hand on Viruth’s shoulder to keep her moving. They did, but it wasn’t long before the Nightmare spoke again.

“Or the Qunari,” he said, switching targets. “He will make an excellent host for one of my minions. Or perhaps I will ride his body myself.”

Bull shuddered. “I’d like to see you try,” he growled, hefting his axe, though he didn’t really look as confident as he sounded.

The Nightmare just chuckled, continuing to speak as if he hadn’t heard him. “Or even Varric,” he continued. “Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you. You found the red lyrium, you brought her here…”

Varric laughed, though Anders knew him well enough to know that it was faked. “Just keep talking, Smiley,” he said brightly, and the demon laughed at him.

“Warden Stroud,” it said, and the man tensed as the demon’s focus landed on him. “How must it feel to devote your whole life to the Wardens, only to watch them fall? Or worse, to know that you were responsible for their destruction? When the next Blight comes, will they curse your name?”

Stroud swallowed. “With the Maker’s blessing,” he said, an edge of fear in his voice. “We will end this wretched beast.”

Hawke swore under her breath, stepping forward protectively. “Hey, asshole,” she snapped. “Come on, when’s it my turn? You’re making a girl feel all lonely!”

The demon just howled with laughter. “Oh, Hawke. Dear little Hawke,” it purred. “Did you think you mattered? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god?” It sounded amused, even as Hawke inhaled sharply. “Fenris is going to die. Anders is going to die. Just like your family, your friends, and everyone you ever cared about.”

Hawke forced a laugh, though Anders could see her shaking. “Well, _that’s_ going to get tiresome quickly,” she said, forcing her voice to sound cheerful. “He thinks he’s so good at this, doesn’t he?”

“Hawke,” he said softly, and then spun to stare up at the swirling clouds. “And what about me?” He demanded. “I’m a bloody _mage_ , you bastard! I’m used to dealing with shits like you; bring it on, demon, or are you _scared_ of me?!”

There was silence for a moment, and then the demon spoke again, almost purring with delight. “Oh, Anders, how could I be scared of you? And even if I was; you’re the one who fears yourself most. What will take you first? The Calling? The Templars? Your own anger? Justice may be gone, but your rage isn’t, and you know you won’t be able to stop it next time. You’ll find yourself alone among the ashes, everyone around you dead. Hawke, Fenris-- they’ll die cursing you, cursing themselves for ever trusting you.”

Anders let out a bark of laughter, though he was trying to keep himself steady. “Nothing I haven’t told myself before,” he managed finally. “You can do better than that.”

The creature fell silent, and didn’t speak again, so they moved on, quietly shaken and lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually they entered a large cavern, another barrier blocking their way forward and more demons lurking amid the stones. Justinia stood on an outcropping by the barrier, awaiting them, and the group surged forward, cutting through the demons until Viruth stumbled again, clutching her head as they all witnessed more of her memories returning.

_\--Climbing the steep steps to the rift, little fears chasing behind. Up, up, up, to the rift. Turns around. “Keep running!” The Divine behind her. Almost there, she had to stop. “Go!” She yells, pushing her to the rift. And she’s gone, and Viruth is through--_

Viruth gasped as they came back to themselves, looking up at the Divine-- no, not the Divine. “It was you,” she said slowly. “It was you behind me, not Andraste. You were with me, and then you...she died.”

“So this creature is a spirit,” Stroud said, and Hawke snorted, rolling her eyes.

“You don’t say,” she said, crossing her arms and looking annoyed; clearly, the Fade -- and more importantly, the Nightmare -- wasn’t doing anything for their moods.

The Divine -- the spirit -- sighed. “I am sorry if I disappoint you,” she said, and lifted her arms, the form she’d taken dissolving away to reveal a pale, glowing spirit, humanoid and feminine, floating slightly above them. It was almost a comfort, Anders decided. Just a spirit, instead of a dead woman. Just a spirit.

“It’s okay,” Viruth decided, seeming to agree with Anders’ assessment. “Whatever you are, you’ve helped us so far.”

Hawke sighed. “Either way,” she said. “The real Divine died at the temple...thanks to the Grey Wardens.” She crossed her arms, giving Stroud a pointed look.

“I told you,” Stroud snapped in reply. “The Wardens responsible were controlled by Corypheus. We can discuss this further once we return to Adamant.”

Hawke just glared, and Varric and Anders took a step back; she was pissed now. “Oh, yes, of course we can-- assuming that the Wardens and their demon army haven’t destroyed the Inquisition while we were gone!”

“How dare you judge us!” Stroud snarled, taking a step closer to the woman. “You tore Kirkwall apart and started the mage rebellion!”

Hawke snarled back, getting in Stroud’s face. “To protect innocent mages, not madmen drunk on blood magic!” She snapped, grabbing his collar. “Don’t you dare blame me for that!”

“Oh?” Stroud growled. “Then should I blame _him?”_ He pointed at Anders, whose eyes narrowed in response as -- yes, as that anger the demon had mocked him about bubbled under the surface. “The man you _spared_ , despite all he has done! And you condemn all us Wardens?!”

Anders stepped forward, eyes blazing, before Hawke could respond. “At least I bloody well acknowledge that what I did was wrong!” He snarled. “At least I accept that I made a mistake! But you can’t bloody well accept that that’s what you did, can you?! You can’t admit you were wrong! You’d put your hands over your ears and say ‘not all Wardens’, and make excuses, because you can’t imagine a world without you -- without _us!_ In case you’ve forgotten, Stroud, I’m a Warden, too!” He gestured wildly, ignoring the sparks crackling at his fingertips. “You can’t imagine a world without Wardens, but maybe that’s what we bloody well need! We’re walking _liabilities_ now! One fake Calling and we’re falling over ourselves to use blood magic, summon demons, because we’re such arrogant fools we can’t see past our own necessity!”

“Blondie has a point,” Varric muttered. “There are a few good ones, but most Wardens I’ve known ended up going crazy...and he isn’t an exception.”

Viruth groaned. “Oh, for Creators’ sake!” She snapped. “Will all of you please _stop!?_ We can yell at each other later, once we’re out of the Fade!”

They all fell silent, looking at each other awkwardly, and nodded, as the first strains of the screeching of little fears reached them. They put aside the argument, letting the spirit Divine break the barrier as they rushed forward, hurrying down the path and through one last cavern before breaking out into one last huge, sprawling canyon -- and freezing almost as one.

“Oh.” Anders whispered. “Oh, bloody hell. I-- shit. I’ve never-- oh, we are so _fucked_.”

Varric swallowed thickly, laughing weakly against Bull’s vehement swearing. “Seconding that,” he managed.

That was a really, really big spider. And-- were those eyes? Anders was having unpleasant flashbacks to the Mother, and his hands shook on his staff.

As the group looked at each other, eyes wide in fear, the spirit Divine moved forward, darting in front of them. “If you would,” she asked Viruth. “Will you tell Leliana...tell her, ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too.’” With that, she began to pulse brightly, the faint inner glow she carried beginning to grow and flash until it blinded them-- and she was gone, and the Nightmare with her, leaving only his minions behind.

They relaxed slightly at that. “Well, that solves that,” Hawke said with a weak laugh, and the group all drew their weapons, rushing into the canyon.

The fighting was fierce, and the battle long, and by the time they were able to move through the canyon they were all heavily wounded, their injuries aching, and neither mage had the mana left to heal anyone. They were all staggering more than walking, and Anders, at least, could hardly see straight.

But then the Nightmare crashed down in front of them, roaring in fury.

“Shit,” Stroud managed, looking around. “We need to clear a path! Go!” He drew his sword, shouting at the others.

Hawke stood frozen a moment, and then shook her head. “No, you go,” she shouted, drawing her own blades. “I’ll cover you!”

“No,” Stroud said sharply. “You were right, this is the Wardens’ responsibility. A Warden must--”

She cut him off. “A Warden must help them _rebuild!”_ She snapped. “That’s your job! Corypheus is _mine._ ”

“Hawke!” Varric shouted, his eyes wide and voice for once as desperate as Anders knew he felt. “What about Fenris?!”

She shook her head, unable to look at either of them. “Corypheus is my responsibility,” she said softly. “I have to-- I’m sorry, Varric. Anders.” She finally looked up, and her face was pale and drawn, but determined, and her eyes were sad. “Anders, please. Tell Fenris-- tell him something witty. And for the love of the Maker, get along. For my sake.”

“Hawke,” Anders tried, his voice breaking. “No, don’t do this. Don’t-- you can’t. I just-- don’t do this in front of me, Hawke, don’t-- don’t leave me.” He looked around desperately, silently begging someone to talk her out of it. At Stroud, at Bull, at Varric, anyone. “You can’t leave us. You can’t. Don’t-- don’t do this to me. To Fenris. You can’t leave us.”

He knew he was crying openly, now, but he couldn’t. Not this, not after everything.

Viruth finally spoke up, her voice cracking. “No,” she said. “Stroud-- Stroud, please?”

He nodded shortly, understanding her meaning. “It has been an honor, Inquisitor,” he said, hefting his blade and turning to face the Nightmare. “For the Wardens!” He bellowed, and charged.

Anders grabbed Hawke by the arm and ran, as hard and fast as he could, following Viruth to the rift and throwing her through it before leaping in after her, the world shaking and reasserting itself around them even as they left Stroud behind.

                                                                              ----------------------

They all scattered to the ground, falling over themselves, as the fighting seemed to come to a halt around them. Viruth levered herself to her feet and snapped the rift shut, and the Wardens around them all froze as the demons flickered out, before looking around in confusion and starting to cheer as they realized it was over.

“Well, it looks like she was right,” Hawke managed, stumbling to her own feet and still looking shaken. “Without the Nightmare...Corypheus lost control of the Wardens, and then there goes the demon army.” She smiled slightly. “But as far as they’re concerned, you broke the spell with the blessing of the Maker, mm?”

Viruth chuckled softly. “Honestly? As long as everyone’s alive and well, they can believe whatever they like. I won’t say a word.”

“You know that’s how legends are born,” Hawke teased gently. “Or at least, so Varric says.”

Viruth sighed. “Right,” she murmured, but forced a smile. “But hey, people need a legend right now, I’m told. And I guess it’s me.”

As the chaos died down, they were approached by soldiers, giving their reports on what had happened since they’d gotten stuck in the Fade. The false archdemon had flown away, Erimond had been captured -- alive -- for judgment, and those Wardens who had not yet been corrupted had fought alongside the Inquisition.

Viruth reported, in turn, that Stroud had died a hero. Without a leader, the Wardens were lost, and after weighing her options, she decided to take them into the Inquisition. Anders knew it was a risk, knew what he’d said in the Fade still rang true, but...at least if they were under the eyes of the Inquisition, they could keep them safe from Corypheus.

He realized bitterly that those thoughts sounded a lot like the rationale given for the Circles, and shook his head. Maker, he was tired, and angry, and exhausted, and shaken. He needed a rest, to get his thoughts back in order.

He was able to get one, thankfully, as they all headed back to Skyhold. They had been shown to one of the caravan wagons to rest in, nursing their wounds, and all of them had accepted the offer gratefully -- well, except Bull, who scoffed, trudging back to walk with his Chargers with a grin.

Viruth had fallen asleep within minutes, leaning against Solas, and the mage closed his eyes as well -- though it was much harder to tell if he was truly asleep, or just thinking. That left the three remaining to lean against each other tiredly as well, enjoying a companionable silence.

Anders was the first to break it, wrapping an arm around Hawke and staring up at the stars. “Hawke-- Addie…?” He began softly, using her first name to show he wanted to be serious. “I...were you really going to stay behind?”

“I…” She began, glancing over at him tiredly with a sigh. “For a moment, yeah,” she admitted. “What that demon said, about not doing anything that mattered...it got to me. I just...it hurt. More than you might think. Losing Carver, losing Mom...losing Bethany to the Circle...losing you to Justice...watching Kirkwall burn over and over...it all adds up, you know? I just...for a moment, I was ready and willing to do something that I knew would matter, no matter what happened.” She swallowed. “But then…I saw Varric’s face, and I saw you crying, and-- and I thought of Fenris, not knowing where I am, not knowing where I’d be, not getting to say goodbye…and I couldn’t.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wet. “Does that make me a coward, Anders?”

“No,” Anders replied immediately, shaking his head, before trying to come up with a real answer. “It makes you... _you,_ I guess. Aderyn Hawke. Varric’s best friend, Fenris’s lover, my...well, I don’t know, but you’re special to me. And we would all miss you. Bethany, Merrill, Isabela, Aveline, they would miss you too. Losing you...it would tear holes in all of us, that nothing could fill back up.” He swallowed, smiling weakly. “You’re too important to any of us to lose.”

He paused, before continuing, his voice a little stronger. “Besides, the Nightmare was full of shit. You helped Aveline become the best damn guard captain Kirkwall’s ever seen -- and not to mention, helped her marry Donnic. You helped Merrill with her stupid eluvian shit, even though she was a crazy blood mage. You saved Isabela from the Qunari. You saved Fenris from Danarius, you helped him win his freedom. And you-- you helped me, even when I betrayed your trust.” He smiled slightly. “You may not have been able to stop the war, but you’re the Maker-damn Champion of Kirkwall, and there’s a statue of you in the docks for a _reason_.”

“Hear, hear,” Varric chimed in with a tired smile. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Blondie. Okay, I probably could, but...I’ll let you have your moment.”

Hawke laughed weakly, leaning over to kiss Varric’s cheek, and then Anders’. “Thanks, you two,” she said fondly. “I love you guys.” She slung her arms around the two men, leaning her head on Anders’ shoulder. “I’m going to head out to Weisshaupt when we’re all patched up and take the news to the rest of the Wardens, okay?” She asked. “Least I can do for Stroud. I’ll come back, though, promise.”

“Don’t suppose we could...tie you down, could we?” Anders asked hopefully, and Hawke just laughed, bonking his head with hers affectionately. “Ah, well,” he joked. “Worth a try. Don’t be gone long, okay?”

“I won’t,” she promised. “Varric, can I get you to write the others, tell them what’s been happening and where I am? They...it’s about time I do that. I’ve been silent for too long.” She wasn’t being entirely truthful, but the other two knew her real reasons for wanting to get in contact with everyone again. The close call she’d just had hung over all their heads and weighed on their shoulders, and Varric just nodded.

“Will do, Birdie,” he told her, using the nickname he’d coined for her when he was being especially sappy. Sometimes, 'Hawke' just didn’t cut it. “Let’s just hope Broody doesn’t hunt me down, yeah?”

They all shared a laugh, and then fell silent, drifting off to sleep in the wagon as it trundled along the road with the rest of the Inquisition. Anders smiled softly, snuggling into Hawke’s side and closing his eyes, enjoying the closeness.

Maker, he was glad she was safe. For now, for this moment, that’s all that mattered. The Inquisition could wait until tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 5: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a ball! There's a lot less dancing and a lot more backstabbing than Anders expected, but hey. It's Orlais.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long! I got stalled on a certain bit because I had no idea how to keep a conversation from going into yell-y territory, but I think I got it. And then I got distracted by actually FINISHING Inquisition, and finally getting around to finishing Origins (I'm about to start the Battle of Denerim lmfao), but I managed to get this done.
> 
> In which Dorian show up, finally, and I get to write sassy Tevinter. And I also get to write Viruth being a badass and showing her claws. And with some sappy-ass Fenders shit at the end for good measure. Oh, and confirmation of Anders' real name is a-go! Enjoy that.
> 
> BTW for anyone wondering where the fuck Fenris came into the picture, please do go read the other fic in this series, because that will answer all your confusion.
> 
> (I just need to figure out more stuff to do for the ASF vignettes; I have no more ideas! I'm open to suggestions.)

**Ch. 5 -- Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts**

 

“Anders,” Viruth called cheerfully, stepping into the apothecary where he spent his time. “How would you like to go to a party?”

Anders looked up, blinking. “A...party?” He asked. “It depends. What kind of party? Are we talking a tiny little soiree, or…”

“A masquerade ball held by Empress Celene,” she replied brightly. “We have to stop her assassination, after all.”

“Oh,” he said lamely. “Well, that’s not absolutely terrifying at all. Jumping headfirst into the deep waters of the Great Game with no warning and probably a ton of people that want to kill us? That’s...incredibly concerning.”

Viruth tilted her head, looking curious despite the fact that she was smiling. “So is that a no?”

“No, that’s a yes,” he said with a grin. “I’d love to -- if just for the sole fact that I’ll be an apostate dancing cheerily  _ right  _ in the middle of all those smarmy nobles.”

She giggled. “You’ll be one of three,” she told him. “Well, two apostates and a Tevinter mage. I’m bringing Solas and Dorian-- well, them and Varric.”

“Ooh,” he said with a grin. “You must  _ really  _ want to make a statement.” He laughed when she laughed, and then paused, biting his lip as an idea came to him. “So if it’s going to be you and Solas, Dorian making the rounds, and Varric being himself...can I bring a plus one?”

Viruth laughed, catching on. “If you want to bring Fenris, go ahead,” she told him. “I’d like to meet him properly, in any case. He hasn’t been around much since you first introduced him to everyone.”

“He’s shy,” Anders joked, but he couldn’t even keep a straight face. “Well, no, that’s a lie, he’s just painfully antisocial. You should have seen him in Kirkwall, hiding out half the time in his old stolen mansion drinking the contents of its wine cellar. It was a small miracle whenever we got him to come play Wicked Grace with us.”

Viruth laughed. “Well, bring him along, then,” she said with an approving nod. “If I remember Varric’s novel right, he might enjoy a chance to get to go to a party properly.”

“Mm,” Anders nodded. “Now let’s just hope we can avoid Josephine and Vivienne’s, uh...fashion advice.” Ugh. He would gladly pay them not to; or Vivienne, at least. Maker but he hated that woman. And she was not allowed to tut over his clothes.

So...now all he had to do was ask Fenris to the ball. That didn’t sound like something out of the world’s worst romance novel at  _ all _ . “Varric will never let us live this down,” he muttered, leaving the room, but he still couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

A grand ball at the Winter Palace, right in the middle of the Great Game...this was going to be fun.

                                                                                    ----------------------

“I changed my mind,” Anders whispered to Fenris as they slowly approached the grand ballroom alongside the others. “I want to go home. _ Now _ .”

Fenris’s mouth twitched, and patted his arm -- they were both dressed as the others were, in red and gold and blue sashes, and he had to admit, he felt damn good; Dorian had dragged Anders off to get them cleaned up and ready, since Varric had done this sort of thing before, evidently, and Solas had made himself scarce in the hours leading up to the ball. And they’d been cleaned up, scrubbed, and made pretty; his hair had been slicked back with no small amount of Dorian’s products, and Fenris -- who had somehow escaped being fussed over -- had his hair was in a ponytail, and he had to admit. The old Anders in him? Was  _ preening _ . He looked good, and so did his-- his elf. Yes, his elf looked gorgeous. And amused, that too.

“I thought you wanted to shock and appal the nobles, Anders,” Fenris said, teasing. “Don’t back out now.”

Anders nodded, managing a slight smile despite the butterflies in his stomach. “Let’s try to do that without botching the entire purpose of our presence, mm? I don’t want anyone to murder me.”

"If you don’t want anyone to kill you, just don’t open your mouth,” Fenris said with amusement, chuckling at Anders’ indignant huff. “In all seriousness, you’ll be fine. Just follow my lead and try to keep from getting on a soapbox.”

That said, they followed Viruth down  the stairs to the main ballroom, glancing back at the servant as he announced their presence, starting with Viruth herself.

“...Lady Inquisitor Lavellan! Vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, crusher of the vile apostates of the Mage Underground,” the servant said, and Varric stifled a snort as he continued. “Champion of the Blessed Andraste herself!”

As they followed her and the Grand Duke, the servant announced them one by one, most of them trying not to grin too widely in amusement. “Accompanying the Inquisitor: Renowned author Varric Tethras, head of noble House Tethras, deshyr of Kirkwall to the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild. Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Azariel. The Lady Inquisitor’s elven serving man, Solas.” That got a few muffled snickers from Anders, even if Fenris didn’t seem to find it funny. He glanced over at the other man apologetically, and Fenris huffed, but nudged him forward. Anders took three steps, and nearly froze when he remembered that he’d taken Josephine aside, in private, to talk to her about the names they’d give the court.

“Ser Rambert Costin, Grey Warden, formerly of the Ferelden Circle of Magi,” the servant said, and Anders barely suppressed a shudder, looking straight ahead even though he could feel the whole rest of their group staring at him -- well, save for the people who had met him in Redcliffe. That didn’t include Fenris, though, and he squirmed under the elf’s startled gaze.  There it was, though. His real name -- his  _ full _ name. It was the first time he’d ever heard it aloud since he was a child, and it was...surreal, to hear it echoing in the ballroom, knowing that people would be calling him _ Ser Costin _ , and that would be his name. His real name. Maker, it was strange. He saw Fenris joining him out the corner of his eye, and smiled slightly, knowing what name would come next -- and knowing Fenris had no idea it was coming.

“Ser Fenris Hawke, companion and consort to Lady Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.” The words echoed, and Anders smiled as he watched Fenris stumble, looking poleaxed. He knew Fenris, knew his experiences at parties like this -- and he’d wanted him to have a better time. Wanted him to be a part of things, not written off as a stray elf. Important, not a servant...not a slave. Fenris managed a smile at him as they got to the other end of the ballroom and stepped to the side, and Anders could swear it was the most genuine smile he’d ever seen on the man.

“Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath,” the servant continued, getting to the last of the names. “Commander of the forces of the Inquisition, former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court, veteran of the Fifth Blight, Seneschal of the Inquisition and Left Hand of the Divine. And Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, Ambassador of the Inquisition.”

Once introduced to the Empress and others, the group spread out around the ballroom, gardens, and vestibule, keeping an eye out for anything untowards as well as listening to the nobles gossip and talk -- that was always useful, according to Varric. Anders and Fenris stuck together, finding a place in the so-called Hall of Heroes near the gardens to listen.

Somewhere along the way Anders passed a refreshments table, and with the deft hands of someone used to swiping food from kitchens, they got to their destination plus one bottle of wine and two glasses to share.

“Apparently this is some kind of obscenely expensive Orlesian vintage, given the scribbling on the label,” Anders said casually, uncorking the bottle with a tug and starting to pour them drinks. “I figured-- you like wine, I like getting drunk, why not treat ourselves while we’re busy looking pretty for the nobles?”

Fenris waited until his glass was full and took a long drink, smiling slightly. “I suppose it’s better than anything in the mansion’s cellar,” he said with a laugh. “Though it’s a bit sweeter than I’m used to.”

“Didn’t know you were such a connoisseur, Fenris,” Anders teased. “Should I be impressed?”

The two laughed, and touched glasses, sipping at their drinks and watching the crowd, listening to the whispered conversations around them. Eventually, Viruth walked by and paused, raising her eyebrows at the two.

“Are you having fun?” She teased, and Fenris raised his glass to her. “Just don’t get drunk and embarrass us, okay?”

Anders saluted. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll do the Inquisition proud, ma’am,” he joked, and she rolled her eyes.

“I believe you. Just...keep an eye out,” she asked. “Something’s going on here. I’m not sure what, but I’m pretty much suspicious of just about everyone right about now.”

They nodded, and she moved off to continue looking around. They finished the bottle and stood, moving back into the hall to make an attempt at mingling -- almost immediately, they were swarmed by tittering, masked women, and Anders looked a bit terrified.

“Oh, my dear Ser Costin! Are you  _ really  _ a Grey Warden? How fascinating!” One said, and another giggled.

“Certainly a  _ handsome  _ Warden,” she said. “Tell me, do they allow Wardens to marry? A good-looking man like you has to have a paramour.”

A third woman gasped softly, though it was clearly just an affectation. “Oh, but Amandine, he is a  _ mage!  _ Do they truly allow mages to marry in the Wardens?”

Anders opened his mouth and closed it again, looking shell-shocked. “I-I-- W-Well, madames, I--”

They continued their barrage of faux-polite questions, of his time in the Circle and why he’d been recruited into the Wardens, and of course about his romantic situation, and Fenris finally stepped in, his voice a smooth purr and startling them all.

“You’ll have to pardon my friend; the Circle and the Wardens both scarcely had events like this, and he’s feeling a little overwhelmed,” he said, stepping in between Anders and the women. “Ser Costin, would you like to get some air? I think we’ve yet to see the gardens.”

Anders simply had to nod, and Fenris took his arm, steering him away from the women -- who looked simultaneously disappointed and intrigued -- and back out into the gardens. Once they were far enough away Anders slumped, looking at the elf slightly incredulously.

“How in the hell did you pull that off?” He asked, bewildered. “I can’t even-- I froze! That was terrifying! They’re like bloody sharks, only in frilly dresses! I’d rather deal with darkspawn!” Fenris just snorted.

“I’ve been to a few more parties than you have, apparently,” he pointed out, looking incredibly amused. “Albeit not like this-- either way, I have seen enough to know how to handle people like them. It’s not too difficult.”

Anders sighed. “Well, I’m...I don’t know if I should be grateful or not,” he admitted. “I mean, I am, very much so, but...that implies I’m grateful that you were at the parties, and I’m-- well, I know why you were there, so I’m not.” He paused. “That made no sense.”

“No, it did,” Fenris reassured him. “I...appreciate the sentiment.”

Anders leaned against a pillar, sighing heavily. “Let’s never do that again,” he joked. 

“Not having fun?” A voice asked, and the two looked up to see Dorian approaching them, looking very much at home. “I am! A few more mages, and it would be just like home. I almost expect my mother to show up and condemn my life choices.”

Anders snorted, and caught Fenris’ eye -- he didn’t look as amused, and Anders sighed, putting a hand on his arm to keep him from doing anything rash. He’d warned the elf about Dorian (and vice versa), and had refrained from letting them talk much for this very reason...and now, of course, of all the times they had to start a conversation, it was  _ here _ .

“A few more mages and a few more  _ slaves _ , you mean,” Fenris said bitterly, and Anders winced, groaning softly. Here we go… 

Thankfully, Dorian didn’t seem too bothered. “Yes, well. That’s Tevinter for you,” he said lightly. “But there’s a reason I’m  _ here  _ and not  _ there _ , mind, so don’t go biting my head off all willy-nilly.” He smiled. “If you must know, I’m quite the pariah over there. For several reasons, really; for example, I rather don’t approve of blood magic-- don’t laugh, I see that face,” he broke off to add, amused. “I  _ know! _ A Tevinter who dislikes blood magic, how scandalous. It’s true, though. And the marks of it are obvious on you, friend-- obvious enough for me to know, generally, who you are.”

“Who I  _ belonged  _ to, you mean,” Fenris snapped. Anders was grateful that at least he was keeping his voice down, though his eyes were still blazing -- he just prayed whatever the argument would go, it would stay quiet. He just kept his hand on Fenris’s arm, silently trying to urge him to save this for later. He could throw things and yell as much as he wanted back at Skyhold. 

Dorian sighed, rolling his eyes -- he still looked amused, however, as if he wasn’t at all frightened of the increasingly pissed off elf in front of him. “Yes, yes, that. I have to ask-- are you the reason he and his lovely little harpy of an apprentice vanished off the map a while back? Yes?  _ Good _ ,” he said, smiling humorlessly. “He was the sort of magister that made us  _ all  _ look like monstrous blood mages cackling in our towers, sacrificing nubile virgins and innocent toddlers while twirling our moustaches nefariously and plotting world domination.”

Anders was unable to stifle a snort of laughter, and covered his mouth. So they’d gotten the  _ funny  _ Tevinter to join the Inquisition. He tried to control his snickers, hoping Fenris wouldn’t be angry; he glanced over, and to his amusement the elf simply looked bewildered, and then settled back to annoyed. “You are…” He tried. 

“Charming? Handsome? Blessed with good looks and a stellar fashion sense?” Dorian suggested. “No, no...I think you’re looking for something more along the lines of incredibly confusing, yes? Good, I like it that way.”

Fenris huffed. “Making it incredibly difficult to continue this argument,” he finished, irritated. “Are you incapable of taking  _ anything _ seriously?”

“Oh, no, I can be serious,” Dorian assured him. “I just think this is a rather bad time to be starting a fight, my friend. If you like, once we return to Skyhold we can pick this up again and you can yell at me all you like.” He paused, and that Isabela-look was back in his eyes. “Not that I would complain over being upbraided by a rather handsome elf such as yourself.”

Anders coughed. “He’s spoken for, Dorian,” he reminded him. “Doubly so.” 

“Oh, I know,” the mage laughed, still teasing. “I would  _ never  _ overstep my bounds, Anders. Just some harmless flirting, that’s all.”

Fenris huffed again, but before the conversation continued, Viruth approached them, looking a bit harried.

“I can’t find Solas and Varric, Dorian,” she said, “But you seem to have found the other two, so that’s good. I really need you three to come with me.”

They moved off as soon as she said that, heading into the vestibule and up the stairs to the Royal Wing -- Viruth explained the situation so far to Anders and Fenris, and what they were doing; after a good bit of investigation and nosing around in restricted areas, Lady Florianne had implied there was information in the wing that would implicate Gaspard in a plot to kill Queen Celene, so they were off to find it and fast, before the worst could happen.

“Ooh, fun,” Anders said, as Viruth tossed him and Dorian their staffs from where one of Leliana’s associates had stashed them. “It’s like one of Varric’s novels. Stopping assassinations, rescuing royalty...this is why I volunteered.”

Fenris grinned a little wolfishly, fussing with the strap of his greatsword (it didn’t seem like their formal attire was very useful for carrying weapons). “So you  _ didn’t  _ come to get assaulted by mobs of noblewomen? Surprising.”

“Shut up, Fenris,” Anders muttered, blushing, and followed Viruth into the wing.

She led them quietly through the silent halls, footsteps light -- Anders couldn’t help but be jealous of her and Fenris, how quiet they could be. He caught Dorian’s eye, and the rueful expression said he felt the same. As they headed through a balcony, Viruth paused, holding up a hand -- and a second later, a scream shattered the silence.

They all tore across the hall, Viruth shouldering open the door to see an elven servant stumble back onto the floor, trying to scramble away from an assassin -- a man dressed as a harlequin, dual daggers in his hands -- his knife burying itself in the floor inches from her foot.

Viruth took in the scene and didn’t stop moving, tearing across the room and shoulder-checking the assassin right out the open window he stood in front of. Dorian snorted, and Anders let out a laugh. “Ten points for the Inquisitor,” he joked, and even Fenris couldn’t hide a slight smirk.

Viruth smiled slightly, before turning to the servant, offering her a hand and helping her up. “Th-thank you,” the woman managed.

“I hope you don’t mind I stole your dance partner,” she replied gently, chuckling as she tried to calm the servant down. 

The servant laughed quietly, seeming to relax. “N-No, not at all,” she said, and shook her head. “No one’s supposed to be here…” She muttered. “Briala said...I shouldn’t have trusted her.”

“Briala?” Viruth asked. “Is there a reason you don’t trust her? I think I might need to know, if there is.”

The servant huffed out a breath. “I knew her, before,” she said, a little bitterly. “When she was Celene’s pet. Now she wants to play revolution, but I remember. She was  _ sleeping  _ with the empress who purged our alienage.”

“Oooh,” Dorian murmured. “Scandalous.”

Viruth blinked. “Oh,” she said. “That’s...hm. I suppose we could use that, if we had to…” She murmured. 

The servant blinked, and then looked determined. “If you have need of it, I will tell you all I know about the Ambassador, provided I am given protection,” she told them, and Fenris frowned.

“I don’t see how that’s anyone’s scandal but the Empress herself,” he said dryly. “Sleeping with an elf is only a problem to the one who  _ isn’t  _ an elf.”

Viruth looked amused, but turned back to the servant. “Go back to the ballroom and find a man named Cullen, he’ll protect you,” she told her, and with a nod, the woman scurried off.

They continued their investigation of the royal wing -- a cursory, albeit possibly unnecessary poke-through of Celene’s safe revealed a pendant of elvish make, that seemed to confirm the servant’s words.

“Why would she keep this?” Dorian asked. “It’s like she’s asking for someone to discover her little affair.”

Anders frowned, fingering the necklace a moment before passing it back to Viruth, who pocketed it. “Well, maybe it was more than just an affair to her,” he suggested. “That could mean something.”

“It could,” Viruth agreed. “I hope it does.”

They headed through the halls, pausing when a darkened corridor filled with sheet-covered furniture turned out to be, as Anders and Dorian’s staffs lit it up, filled with bodies.

“Well, that’s not worrying at  _ all _ ,” Anders joked weakly. “No problems here, just...your normal, everyday hall full of corpses.”

Fenris snorted. “If we didn’t know someone was plotting murder before, we certainly do now,” he said dryly. “I thought Orlesians were supposed to be  _ subtle _ .”

Viruth held out a hand. “Shh,” she whispered, and pointed at a door -- it was closed, and judging from the rattling noises, locked. Someone was shouting angrily on the other side as they got closer, and the Ferelden accent was obvious, even as he was shouting muffled curses and slurs against the Orlesians through the door.

“Oh,” Anders said. “Well, that explains it.”

Dorian snorted. “Ah, yes. Fereldens. Masters of tact and discretion that they are, the bodies now make perfect sense,” he said, chuckling.

There was a shared moment of amusement, before Viruth paused, and then turned to dart down the corridor, gesturing for them to follow her. She reached a door leading outside to a garden, and pushed it  open, and the group spilled outside to see a whole cohort of archers with their bows all pointed at them, on top of a thin sparkle of green that signalled a crack in the Fade.

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” Anders muttered, and looked up with the others as a woman entered the balcony above the garden. Pretty dress, blonde hair, silver mask...she was clearly important, and by the expression on Viruth’s face, she knew her.

“Inquisitor!” The woman said smoothly, her Orlesian accent pronounced. “What a pleasure! I wasn’t certain you’d attend.” She chuckled. “You’re such a challenge to read. I had no idea if you’d taken my bait.”

“Lady Florianne,” Viruth said, her voice mockingly light. “If you’re looking for a dance partner, I’m afraid I’m quite busy at the moment.”

Florianne chuckled again. “Yes, I see that,” she said, her own voice light -- Anders was beginning to understand the obsession masks, given the performances everyone seemed to put on. “Such a pity you did not save one last dance for me.” She smiled. “It was kind of you to walk into my trap so willingly. I was so tired of your meddling.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him.”

“At this point, I’d think disappointment was an old friend,” Viruth replied, voice sarcastic.

Florianne laughed. “Oh, you poor, deluded thing. You don’t know half of what Samson and I have planned. And now I suppose you never will.” She smirked wider. “In their darkest dreams, no one would imagine I would assassinate Celene myself. All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike. A pity you’ll miss the rest of the ball, Inquisitor. They’ll be talking of it for  _ years _ .”

She turned, waving a hand at the archers. “Kill them all. And bring me her marked hand. It will make a fine gift for the master.”

Viruth dove forward as arrows shot above her head, and whipped her hand out, snapping the rift open. The ensuing demons caused chaos among the archers, and the four of them leaped into battle. Anders found himself sliding back into combat next to Fenris almost easily -- it was comfortable, familiar, the same way it had been with Hawke, with Varric. For his part, Fenris’s first brush with a rift seemed not to phase him at all, his greatsword slicing into the demons as if it was just another day in Kirkwall. Then again, with how many blood mages they’d dealt with there, it almost was.

Eventually Viruth was able to close the rift, and the archers lay dead or unconscious on the ground. Viruth looked around, noticing a soldier tied up nearby, and walked over to untie him. “Andraste’s tits!” He demanded as he stood, his Ferelden accent marking him as whoever had been locked up and shouting earlier. “What was all that?! Were those demons? There aren’t any more blasted demons coming, right?”

“Yes, those were definitely demons,” Anders snarked. “Congratulations, you’re not blind.”

Viruth hid a smile, and turned her gaze back on the soldier, who still looked a bit shaken. “Maker bless me! Demons? How could there be demons in the  _ fucking  _ Winter Palace?!” He growled. “I knew Gaspard was a bastard, but I didn’t think he’d feed me to fucking horrors over a damned  _ bill _ .”

Viruth blinked. “You...you really think that you were captured, tied up, and thrown into a death trap...over a bill?” She asked.

“Well, when you put it like  _ that _ ...” the soldier grumbled. “Anyway, the duke wanted to move on the palace tonight, but he didn’t have enough of them fancy Chevaliers. So he hired me and my men. He had to offer us triple our usual pay to come to Orlais. Stinking poncy cheesemongers.”

Viruth looked thoughtful, and then smiled, seeming to have an idea. “Well, do you want a new job?” She asked. “One that pays better, and can guarantee you won’t be tossed to demons over a bill? The Inquisition could always use a skilled mercenary company.”

“Oh, you’re hiring?” The soldier asked, grinning. “I’m game. Anything’s better than this bullshit. You want me to talk to the empress, or the court, or sing a blasted song in the Chantry, I’ll do it.”

Viruth smiled. “Good, thank you,” she said, and he disappeared out the door. She paused, turning to the others. “Well, now we have what we need,” she said. “We have to hurry back to the ballroom and stop Florianne.”

“Oh, yes, can’t have the assassination happening,” Dorian agreed. “I’d really rather stop that. It would put such a damper on the evening.”

The four of them hurried out of the royal wing as quick as possible, and back into the ballroom. Almost as soon as they arrived -- having stashed their weapons back where they’d been hidden -- Cullen approached them, looking relieved. “Oh, thank the Maker you’re back,” he said, sounding harried. “The Empress will begin her speech soon-- what should we do?”

Viruth frowned, thinking, and then she caught a glimpse of Florianne on the other side of the room, looking smug -- and her eyes narrowed. “Wait here, Cullen,” she said slowly. “I think I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess.”

She stalked off, leaving Cullen sputtering in confusion. “But-- there’s no time--” He tried, but Anders put a hand on his shoulder.

“I think she’s got a plan,” he said reassuringly. “Or, I hope she does. Anyway, mostly I think she’s just really sick of all the backstabbing going on around here. Just watch.”

Cullen sighed, and they all moved to the balcony to watch Viruth approach Florianne.

“I believe we owe the court one more show, Your Grace,” she called up to the woman, where she stood with Gaspard and Briala -- the crowd above and around them all gasped and grew silent, watching behind masks with narrowed, curious eyes.

Florianne was silent a moment, before turning, her own mask hiding her expression. “Inquisitor,” she replied evenly.

Viruth just smiled slightly, though her own emotions were visible in her eyes -- Anders was right, she clearly was quite done with all the intrigue. “The eyes of every noble in the empire are upon us, Your Grace. Remember to smile,” she said coldly, and Anders had to make a mental note never to piss the girl off. As sweet as she was, she hid a very vindictive side, apparently. 

“This is your party, after all,” the elf continued, walking towards Florianne even as the woman backed up. “You wouldn’t want them to think you had lost control.”

Florianne managed a smile, her mask -- the figurative one, at least -- slipping. “Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?” She asked.

Viruth stopped in front of her, letting the silence drag on for a long, tense moment, before continuing. “Hm. That is a good question. I do seem to recall you saying something earlier, though. What was it…? Oh, yes -- ‘all I needed was to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike’.” She crossed her arms behind her back, smiling pleasantly, walking around the woman rather like a wolf around its prey. “When your archers failed to kill me in the garden, I feared you wouldn’t save me this last dance.”

The crowd gasped, whispers already rolling through the masked nobles like waves. Anders let out a low whistle, and Dorian smirked. “Well,” he said approvingly. “Who knew our little Herald had it in her?”

But Viruth wasn’t done, apparently. “It’s so easy to lose your good graces, though, isn’t it?” She continued, still circling the grand duchess. “After all, you even framed your own brother for the murder of a council emissary.” More gasps, more whispers, and Gaspard, standing beside them, let out an indignant noise of surprise.

“Oh, it was certainly an ambitious plan, wasn’t it?” Viruth asked, her voice mocking now. “Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds-- all your enemies under one roof.”

Florianne stepped back, her facade cracking. “This-- this is all very entertaining,” she tried. “But you do not imagine anyone believes your wild stories?”

Before Viruth could continue, the empress herself -- dressed in blue and gold, and having witnessed the whole thing -- spoke, cutting through the murmurs. “That will be a matter for a judge to decide, cousin,” she said, her voice icy.

Florianne swallowed, turning to her brother. “Gaspard?” She asked. “You cannot possibly believe this! You know I would never--”

The man cut her off, simply turning and walking away with Briala, allowing the guards to seize her. They grabbed her, even as she backed away, protesting. Viruth just smiled slightly, nodding at the guards. “You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace,” she said lightly as they took her away. “You’re just the last to find out.”

After she was gone, Viruth seemed to relax, but only just -- looking up at the Empress and straightening her back again, she continued. “Your Imperial Majesty,” she said, addressing Celene. “I believe we should speak in private. Elsewhere.” With a nod, the woman left the balcony, Viruth accompanying her.

Anders let out a long sigh, leaning against the wall. “Well,” he said. “That went well!” He glanced over at Cullen, who seemed a little shell-shocked. “You alright there, Cullen?”

“I-- yes,” the man said after a moment, shaking his head. “I can’t...that was impressive. I should give the Inquisitor a little more credit...I think we all seem to forget she can handle herself without her advisors, on occasion.”

Fenris snorted. “I think you should also be a bit more wary of her than you are,” he added. “She hides quite a bite underneath that innocence of hers.”

“Noted,” Cullen said with a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind next time we have to deal with Orlesians.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, though -- it seems like all of these women so involved in saving Thedas are all rather frightening in their own ways, aren’t they?”

Fenris looked amused, and Anders barked out a laugh. “Oh, Maker, you can sy that again,” he said with a grin. “As someone who is personal friends of the Warden-Commander, and Hawke, and the Inquisitor? These Maker-damn women are  _ all  _ terrifying.”

“Ooh, you know the Hero of Ferelden?” Dorian asked, surprised. “I never would have guessed. How did that happen?”

Anders blinked, and then snorted. “She conscripted me into the Wardens, that’s how,” he explained. “I helped her deal with a darkspawn problem in Amaranthine several years ago, right after the Blight. She’s...really something, the Commander is. Wonder how she’s doing.”

The four men made small talk for a while, until Celene, Briala, and Viruth all reentered the balcony, the women all looking pleased.

“Lords and ladies of the court,” she began, and all went silent. “This is a night for celebration! Those who sought to poison our empire with treason have been brought to justice. It is a new age for Orlais! We shall build a world in which all men and women live in harmony. Let the cornerstone of change be laid.” She paused, and gestured for Briala to come and stand next to her. “I present the newest member of the court-- Marquise Briala, of the Dales!”

“Holy _ hell _ ,” Anders whispered. “Did she just make an elf nobility? Is anyone else hearing the collective shit the nobles just took?”

Fenris just smirked, and nudged him to be quiet.

Briala came forward, smiling widely as Celene let her speak. “This is not just a victory in Halamshiral, or within the Empire, or even for elves alone,” she began. “This is a triumph for everyone. Over a thousand years ago in the Valarian Fields, elves and humans together defeated the Imperium. We can do so much more now. We are greater than our ancestors ever dreamed! Together, we will start by saving our world from the enemy who took the Divine and tore the sky apart!”

There was silence, and then it was Viruth’s turn to speak, apparently. She looked startled a moment, as if not expecting the honor, but then stepped forward as well. “It will take all of us to defeat the enemy threatening our world,” she said, and fell nervously silent.

“We are already tracking these Tevinter agents,” Briala said. “Soon they will have no place to hide.”

Celene smiled. “But that is tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight, we celebrate our newfound fellowship. Let the festivities commence!”

That said, the nobles cheered, and the party began in earnest.

Anders noticed Viruth disappearing onto a balcony, Solas slipping after her a few moments later, and smiled.

“I believe Dorian has taken command of the liquor table,” Fenris said dryly, coming to stand next to him. “And of course, Varric already has a small army of adoring fans -- I believe I heard him say something about having words with his publisher in regards to how many Orlesians have in fact read his books.”

Anders laughed. “Ooh, someone’s in trouble if they’ve been withholding money from our dwarf,” he joked. “How are the others?”

“Josephine has been speaking with her sister,” Fenris said, bemused. “I don’t think she’s enjoying herself. Leliana is...I’m not certain, but she seems to be having fun. As for Cullen, he didn’t have your luck in escaping the attentions of that flock of noblewomen.”

“Ha!” Anders crowed. “Well, better him than me, I say. Poor Cullen, I’ll buy him a drink when we get back to Skyhold or something.”

Fenris chuckled. “When did you two start getting along?” He asked. “I wasn’t expecting the civility.”

“Ah, he’s not so bad,” Anders said with a shrug. “We came to an understanding. I seem to be doing that with a lot of people, mm?” He punctuated his words with a sly glance at the elf, who snorted.

“You have at that,” he agreed. “Where did Viruth go?”

Anders indicated the balcony. “Out there, with Solas,” he said. “I think we should let them have a moment. They’re probably being cute.”

“Oh, are they--?” Fenris asked, and Anders nodded. “Ah. I was curious.”

The two fell silent for a long moment, and Anders leaned against the balcony, looking out over the ballroom below. “Well, in the end, I didn’t get to really do much partying, after all,” he mused ruefully. “And here I was looking forward to the whole ‘look, an apostate dancing right in the middle of the Winter palace’ thing.” He laughed. “Maybe that’s a good thing, though. I can’t dance at all -- that would probably be more appaling than the apostate bit!”

He chuckled, and then sighed. “You know,” he said suddenly. “Karl knew how to dance. I don’t remember who taught him, but he’d promised to teach me one day, before they sent him to Kirkwall. Never did get those lessons, and I guess I forgot about them. We would joke all the time about what would happen if mages ever got to go to fancy balls like in the stories...now I’m here, and it ended up being mostly backstabbing and drinking -- whoever wrote those books was a dirty liar, unless he wasn’t talking about Orlesian parties.”

He fell silent, and glanced over at Fenris, who was watching him quietly. “You know,” he began slowly, glancing around the room. “It seems like there’s still time before the Inquisition heads out.”

Anders blinked. “Are you implying what I think you’re implying?” He asked slowly, a smile twitching at his lips.

“I do know how to dance,” Fenris admitted. “Don’t ask why; though I imagine you can guess. But if you still want to...” He shifted, looking somewhat awkward. “There’s still time before the night ends, if you-- I mean--  _ fasta vass _ , I’m terrible at this.”

Anders beamed at him, offering a hand. “I apologize to your feet in advance, but,” he said softly. “I’d love to.”

Fenris blinked, and returned the smile, taking Anders’ hand and pulling him closer.

Well, at least the night was ending on a good note, Anders decided. Celene was right -- the fight could wait until tomorrow. For now...let it just be this. 


End file.
